


[FIC] The Brightest Witch of Her Age

by julchen_in_red



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, POV Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julchen_in_red/pseuds/julchen_in_red
Summary: A canon-compliant story of the studious Muggleborn witch who tried to balance both her worlds and was ultimately forced to make a terrible choice.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 63





	[FIC] The Brightest Witch of Her Age

**Author's Note:**

> With immense and loving gratitude  
> to everyone who encouraged me to try writing and to keep writing;  
> to my inexhaustibly enthusiastic alphas m4g0rtz and loveglowsinthedark;  
> and to my thoughtful and supportive betas lq_traintracks, Writcraft, and phd-mama.

Morning, Monday, 22 July 1991: the delivery of the letter

“I don’t believe a word of it. Magic doesn’t exist,” Hermione’s father repeated.

Minerva McGonagall smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Granger, I realise this comes as a shock. But the fact remains that your daughter is a witch.” From a tiny fringed black fabric pouch hanging from a thin rope around her neck, she impossibly drew a large calligraphed envelope. Hermione’s mother flinched into the sofa, back rigid, as though the envelope might bite.

With a small flourish of the wrist, Minerva handed the envelope to Hermione, who sat, fascinated, between her parents. With them both watching skeptically, Hermione removed the letter from the envelope and read it aloud.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  


Hermione’s father gave a disbelieving snort. Hermione hesitated and peeked at Minerva, who nodded encouragement.

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)  


“Utter nonsense,” Mr. Granger muttered.

“If you _please,_ Mr. Granger.” Minerva gave him a reproving frown. Hermione’s father opened his mouth, then shut it again. Hermione continued.

Dear Miss Granger,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on the first of September. We look forward to welcoming you.  
Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress  


“Dragonhide gloves!” Hermione read from the equipment list. “A wand! A cauldron!” she squealed, delighted.

“No. Absolutely not,” erupted Mr. Granger. “Hermione already has a very good school expecting her this Autumn. She’s an excellent student with a bright future. Even if any of this were real, she wouldn’t be going off to any ‘school of witchcraft,’” he drawled scornfully.

Hermione, clutching the list, looked in alarm at Minerva, who met Mr. Granger’s eyes calmly.

“I assure you, Mr. Granger, this is all quite real, and your daughter’s future would be best served with a proper magical education.”

“And why would that be?” Hermione’s father narrowed his eyes.

“Without magical training, she’ll injure herself for lack of control. If you deny her magic entirely, she may die,” said Minerva bluntly. Hermione’s mother, still leaning stiffly into the corner of the couch, shook her head.

“None of this can possibly be true,” Mrs. Granger said, speaking at last. “Hermione is very well behaved. You won’t find a more obedient and meticulous child. She’s certainly in no danger from lack of _control._ ”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Minerva. “She has a bruise on her face even now. Has she not already been hurt using magic she hasn’t yet mastered?”

“No, of course not,” Mrs. Granger insisted. “Every child gets mysterious bumps and bruises occasionally. Hermione’s always walking around while reading. She won’t put her books down for even a minute.”

Hermione blushed and looked down at the letter in her lap, hair falling in a curtain around her face.

“Is this true, Hermione?” asked her father. “Have you been trying to use… _magic?_ ” He said the word as though it was sour.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Hermione pleaded. “I couldn’t help it, it just happened. There was a book on a high shelf in the library, and I couldn’t reach it at all, even on tiptoe on the step stool, and somehow it just fell off the shelf and the corner caught me here.” She touched the purple bruise under her eye.

Minerva pulled a thin stick of wood from her sleeve, gave it two flicks and a decisive wave, and the bruise instantly faded, to Mr. and Mrs. Granger’s audible shock. “There, I’m sure that feels better. And here’s a book that you won’t need to drop on yourself to enjoy.”

From the tiny fringed bag, she pulled a new hardcover book with a superbly decorated cover and gilded page edges. Hermione’s mouth fell open and she brushed her fingertips reverently over the title: _Hogwarts, A History._

Hermione’s father leaned forward to reassert himself. “Now wait, we haven’t agreed to any of this. We’re rational people. Magic isn’t real. It can’t be. The world just doesn’t work that way.”

“Mr. Granger, the conversation has progressed. You’re an intelligent man and I have other students to visit today. Please keep up.”

Hermione’s mother exchanged a look of outrage with her husband. “It seems we’re being given no choice in the matter.”

“If you value your daughter’s well-being, as I’m sure you do, this is your best option. Hermione is fortunate to be accepted to attend Hogwarts. It’s one of the oldest, most illustrious schools of magic in the world.”

“Distinguished, is it? Exclusive?” Mr. Granger raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Good lord, there’s more than one?” muttered Hermione’s mother.

“We pride ourselves on our inclusivity, but Hogwarts is certainly the finest school your daughter could attend.”

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Hermione’s father said, scanning the book as Hermione flipped through it. “We’ll have something good to tell our family.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Granger, but you mustn’t tell anyone about Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I _mustn’t?_ ” Hermione’s father said with a hint of rebellion.

“Yes,” Minerva replied crisply, “ _you must not._ There is an international statute forbidding the sharing of information about the magical world with Muggles.”

“With what?” asked Mrs. Granger. “What’s a Muggle?”

“A Muggle is a person lacking magic. For the safety of both wizardkind and Muggles, it is not permitted to tell Muggles about magic, magical persons, nor magical places like Hogwarts.”

“‘Lacking magic,’” Hermione’s mother said under her breath, affronted. “As if there’s something wrong with _us._ ”

“Are there many children like Hermione?” asked Mr. Granger. “Magical children born to normal families?”

“I’ll thank you not to imply magical children are abnormal. And yes, there are several new Muggleborn students at Hogwarts every year. They go on to succeed in the magical world as well as any child born to an all-magical family.”

Mrs. Granger blinked. “The magical world? Where is that, precisely?”

“Why, it’s all around you, quite literally. There are a number of dedicated magical villages and neighbourhoods, but there are witches and wizards in nearly every town.”

“Are there?” asked Hermione’s mother, paling. “They’ve just… _been_ here…this entire time? Having wands and cauldrons and…” She stared at Hermione’s equipment list. “… _Dragons?_ ”

“Will I see the dragons?” asked Hermione, vibrating with excitement.

“Certainly not,” Minerva chuckled. “There are no dragons at Hogwarts.”

“Where _are_ the dragons?” Mrs. Granger asked through a forced smile.

“There are some wild dragons, but they’re in managed preserves, mostly.”

“Mostly,” Hermione’s mother repeated weakly, and rubbed her temples.

“Do you teach a subject?” asked Mr. Granger.

Minerva drew herself up with pride. “I teach Transfiguration.” At the family’s confusion, she clarified, “The magical art of changing one thing into another.”

“Really.” Hermione’s mother looked dubiously at Minerva’s wand. “Well, it will be useful when Hermione comes home and can instantly produce dinner from…” She gestured broadly. “…Grains of dirt, maybe.”

“I’m sorry, but all students are strictly prohibited from using magic at home until they come of age, which in the magical world is the age of seventeen,” said Minerva. “Also, unfortunately, food is one of the very few substances which cannot be magically created.”

Hermione’s mother rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. So, do I understand correctly? Under threat of injury or death, our daughter is required to attend a school that will teach primarily knowledge related to magic, which completely contraverts everything we’ve taught her, and we’ll need to conceal this from our friends and family who ask after her, and she won’t even be able to use her new knowledge at home? Is there anything else?”

“Any further correspondence which originates from Hogwarts will be delivered by an owl.”

Mrs. Granger laughed.

Minerva waited patiently.

“You’re serious? Owls?”

“Owls,” Minerva confirmed. “It’s polite for you to keep snacks on hand to refresh them after their journey.”

“Oh, well, let it never be said we were rude to an owl,” Mrs. Granger grumbled.

“Indeed not. If an owl judges you poorly, that reputation will get around, and it’s difficult to shake. Best not risk it at all.”

As Hermione’s parents grappled with the prospect of being judged badly by owls, Hermione saw a glimmer of amusement in Minerva’s eyes.

“Ah!” From the tiny pouch, Minerva pulled a silver pocket watch on a chain. The finial was glowing red, as if hot. “I’m sorry, I must move on to deliver the next letter. But before I go: Miss Granger, are you free to be taken shopping for your books and supplies tomorrow?”

Mrs. Granger laid her hand possessively on Hermione’s arm. “I have dental patients to see all day tomorrow.”

“You may keep your schedule. Hermione’s school supplies must be purchased in a magical shopping district of London, and it will be more efficient to take her myself the first time. If you honour the Statute of Secrecy, a special dispensation may be granted next year so you can take her yourselves. But for the time being, Miss Granger?”

Hermione stared at Minerva for a moment before remembering the question she’d been asked. She ran her hand over the beautiful book, took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I’m available.” She kept her eyes on Minerva as her mother huffed her annoyance. Hermione’s heart pounded with new elation: _I really am different. There are others like me._

“Splendid.” Minerva raised her wand again. “ _Memorandum._ Hermione Jean Granger, Diagon Alley, tomorrow, 8:00 AM.” As she spoke, letters of light took shape like manuscript in the air for a moment and vanished. “I will fetch you here at that time. Please be ready.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m always punctual,” Hermione said, hugging her book. “Thank you so much for everything.”

“I will see you in the morning, then. Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Granger.”

“Thank you for coming. It’s been informative.” Hermione’s father opened the door, unsmiling.

Minerva winked at Hermione, and, in the next second, shrank down into the form of a tabby cat, which walked out the door and trotted purposefully, tail high, toward the woods at the end of the street.

“Well.” Mr. Granger glowered at Hermione. “This is unexpected.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t try to do it on purpose. It just happened.” She gave him a tentative smile. “It’ll be wonderful, Dad. I’m so excited.”

“Yes, let’s not get carried away. _Magic._ Preposterous.”

Hermione’s mother had not stopped staring after Minerva’s departure. “She just turned into a cat,” she blurted, and pinned Hermione with a desperate stare. “Will _you_ turn into a cat?”

 _I don’t think so,_ Hermione wanted to say, but she couldn’t promise. Anything was possible if magic was real.

That night, as Hermione lay in bed, reading _Hogwarts, A History_ by torchlight, she lingered over a brightly illuminated illustration of the Founders, whose marvellous names she’d already committed to memory.

“I’m a witch,” she whispered to herself for the hundredth time, and another frisson of joy ran down her arms. “I _knew_ it.”

* * *

Late afternoon, the next day

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Granger. Enjoy reading all your new books, keep your ticket safe, and remember how I told you to get onto the platform. We’ll see you soon.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much for all your help.”

Hermione watched the grey tabby make its way to the woods, squared her shoulders, and opened the front door of her house. “Mum! Dad! I’m back! I have so much to show you!”

Her parents were sitting at the kitchen table with _Hogwarts, A History_ open before them, its pages spiny with paper strips they’d used to mark items of interest.

“Just one bag? I would have thought the books alone would need several bags to carry,” said her mother.

“Oh, it’s all in here!” said Hermione, placing the bag on the table next to a notebook dense with her father’s cramped handwriting. “Professor McGonagall charmed the bag to hold everything. Look, I have my uniform!” She proudly donned the black robe and pointed hat.

“You do look the part,” her mother said with a tight smile. “It’s Halloween every day at Hogwarts, I suppose.”

“They’re _traditional._ ”

“Oh, well, far be it from us to disparage the _tradition,_ ” Mrs. Granger scoffed. “I should have known that the institution which produced the song, ‘Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts’ is obviously of a culture of refinement and dignity.”

Hermione stared in dismay at her mother. “Mum. I like the robes.” _And the silly song,_ she thought.

“Elizabeth.” Hermione’s father laid his hand over his wife’s. To Hermione he said, “Your mum just wishes we could have come with you ourselves to see all these remarkable things that have suddenly become so important to you. The robes are very nice. Did you get the dragonhide gloves as well?”

“I did!” Hermione pulled them from the bag and they shimmered blue-green in the late afternoon sunlight from the window. When she put them on, they magically adjusted themselves to her small hands.

Hermione’s mother shrank back. “Oh, that’s creepy.”

“They certainly look sturdy.” Mr. Granger leaned forward and read the tag. “Conflagri Sisters Premium Dragonhide Gloves, Guaranteed Impervious to Every Caustic, Toxic, Adhesive, Odoriferous, Hallucinogenic, and Flammable Substance Listed in the International Index of Magical Horrors.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be studying many magical horrors?”

“Professor McGonagall said I won’t really need the gloves’ full protection this year,” Hermione assured him.

“So, magical hallucinogens next year then. What fun,” Hermione’s father said dryly. “What else did you get?”

“My wand!” Hermione felt around inside the bag until she found the box from Ollivander’s. Her father made a satisfyingly impressed sound as she took the lid off. Her mother pushed herself a few inches back from the table.

“Vine wood, ten and three-quarters inches long, dragon heartstring core. Determined, resilient, and eager to learn,” Hermione recited proudly.

“Lovely detail in the carving. Did you pick it out yourself?” asked her father.

“No, the wand chooses you. Mr. Ollivander measured me with a magical tape measure and asked questions like do I collect anything, and do I sing in the bath, and what’s my favourite day of the week, and what House do I hope to be Sorted into—”

“Ravenclaw, obviously,” her father interrupted.

Hermione looked down at her wand, gleaming in its box. “Why obviously?”

“Because Ravenclaw is the House that prizes intelligence. ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’ The other Houses are made of those who weren’t clever enough to merit being in Ravenclaw.” Hermione’s father gestured toward the Hogwarts book. “Slytherin sounds good too, a House of ambition, but I gather they’re inclined to legacy membership, so Ravenclaw it is.”

Hermione rubbed her thumb over a ridge in the wand’s carving. “Gryffindor looks interesting.”

“Gryffindor! He looks a tiresome rogue, I think, and that red and gold scheme is garish beyond description. Daring, nerve, and chivalry! Antics and criminal mischief, more like. I know the type.” He shook his head with emphatic contempt. “No, let others get themselves in trouble. I don’t want to receive any owl letters telling us you’ve got yourself mortally wounded…or worse, expelled,” he chuckled. At Hermione’s expression, he backpedaled. “It’s a joke, Strawberry. I mean only that I expect you to concentrate on your studies, and leave the adventures and shenanigans, however nobly conceived, to others.”

“Don’t worry.” Hermione gave a weak laugh. “Imagine _me_ having _shenanigans._ ”

Her father laughed with her. “Well, show us what else you have.”

“Oh…my train ticket!” Hermione pulled it from her pocket. “King’s Cross, September first, at 11:00, platform nine and three-quarters.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows. “Platform what?”

“It’s a magical platform. You have to walk through a wall to get to it. That is…I mean… _I_ need to walk through a wall. Muggles aren’t allowed onto the platform.”

“What are you saying?” Hermione’s father peered over the rims of his glasses. “We can’t put you on the train? Can’t wave you off?”

“No, I’m sorry. I wish you could, truly, but it’s—”

“—against the many magical rules, no doubt.”

“Is nobody else disturbed that there’s a magical train platform right in the middle of King’s Cross, and that only certain people are allowed to see it?” Mrs. Granger tapped her fingers agitatedly on the table. “How is any of this _allowed?_ Wizards and witches walking around, flouting the laws of physics, looking like regular people.”

With a trembling hand, Hermione put her ticket back in her pocket. “They — _we_ — _are_ regular people. Some people are just magical, and some aren’t.”

Mrs. Granger eyed the wand in its box with disapproval. “I could have happily gone my whole life without knowing about it.”

* * *

Morning, Monday, 29 August 1991: three days before school

Hermione noticed the stack of cards next to her father’s plate as soon as she sat for breakfast. She assumed that, instead of questions about multiplication, mitosis, and the Magna Carta, these would be questions about magic.

“Made new flash cards, Dad?”

“Yes indeed.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You’ve had a week to read all those books and you leave soon. As long as you _must_ attend a school of witchcraft this year, you might as well be prepared to excel. As always, for every answer you miss, you will have a brief writing assignment to improve your memory.”

“I’m ready.”

“I hope so. First question: Who signed the Treaty of Goldwall which ended the War of Five Wolves?”

“Bertram VII, Aurelia Maxwell, Lady Jack Stokely, Anaximander of the Mountain, and Philip the Fortunate.”

“In what year?”

“1593.”

“What is the incantation for unlocking doors?”

“ _Alohomora._ ”

“And the wand motion?”

Hermione traced her fork through the air.

“In what month does the Leonid meteor shower peak?”

“November.”

“Why is aqua regia so named?”

“Because it can dissolve the noble metals, including gold and platinum.”

“What is an acceptable substitute for ground amethyst in a potion?”

“Selenite.”

“Incorrect.” Mr. Granger put a red X in the corner of the card. “The correct answer is sugilite. By tomorrow morning, write a paragraph each on selenite and sugilite. Next question: What properties do four-leaved clovers contribute to a potion?…”

* * *

Morning, Sunday, 1 September 1991: leaving for school

Hermione’s father loaded her trunk onto a trolley and they wheeled it into King’s Cross together. Mrs. Granger walked with them, clutching her pocketbook with irrational vigilance.

They approached platforms nine and ten just in time to see a redheaded boy walk his trolley straight at the wall between the platforms and disappear.

Mrs. Granger wheeled around, horrified. “No! No. Absolutely not.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Mum!”

“I am NOT watching you do that. I can’t. I feel ill.”

“It’s just a magic wall!”

Mrs. Granger gave a high, panicked laugh.

Hermione glanced at the wall again to see another redheaded boy go through the same way. “Professor McGonagall promised it doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s not the point! It makes no sense!” Mrs. Granger hissed. “We’re in the middle of bloody London!”

“Yes, and all the magic children are getting on their train platform to go to school.” Mr. Granger put an arm around Hermione’s mother’s shoulders. “Shall we say goodbye just here and leave Hermione to it?”

Hermione nodded. She thought it might be easier to do without an audience anyway.

“Well…” Mrs. Granger chanced a look back, where a slight black-haired boy was running at the wall with determined terror. She shuddered and closed her eyes. “Yes, I’ll say goodbye here.”

“I’ll be fine, Mum. Everyone’s been getting on the platform this way since it was built.”

“Right. Well.” She gave Hermione a hug, shaking. “Have a good term, darling. We’ll see you for Christmas.”

“Have a good term, Strawberry,” Hermione’s father said, and ruffled her hair. “Work hard. Let us know as soon as you’re sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Hermione watched her parents walk away, wiped her eyes, and watched a red-haired lady and her daughter go through the wall. As Hermione moved her trolley into position, she was seized with a fear that it wouldn’t work for her, that she would simply crash into the unforgiving wall and make a scene in the train station.

“I belong here,” she whispered fiercely toward the wall. “I have a ticket. Please let me in.” 

She started running for the wall as she’d seen the black-haired boy do and reflexively closed her eyes for the impact. When there was none, she found herself looking at the most beautiful steam engine she’d ever seen.

She stood staring at it, entranced, until she was bumped by another student’s trolley, then progressed slowly down the platform, through the crowd. A pair of older students helped her heft her trunk onto the train, and she found an empty compartment in which to put on her robes. In her head she heard her mother say, _You do look the part._

_I hope so._

She’d been so excited about the prospect of being among hundreds of other magical children that she hadn’t imagined exactly how she would go about meeting them. She sat, hands folded in her lap, and wondered whether it was the done thing for new students to go down the train introducing themselves. It dawned on her that maybe children from magical families grew up with an entirely different set of manners. She didn’t want to be unwittingly rude.

The door of the compartment slid open, revealing three girls.

“Is anyone else sitting in here?”

“No, come in!” It was perfect, a small group of slightly older girls she could get to know in a quiet compartment. They could tell her everything she needed to know before the train arrived at Hogwarts. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Oh! I’m Laurel, this is Scarlet, and this is Sophelia. Are you new?”

Hermione nodded.

“Are you someone’s little sister?”

“No.”

“Aww, so this is all new to you. You’ve got your robes on already. Are you excited? Maybe a little scared too?” Laurel smiled kindly. “Everyone is at first. The castle is lovely. You’ll be all right.”

“Just watch out for trapdoors.” Scarlet winked at Hermione.

Laurel smacked Scarlet on the shoulder. “You’re terrible. Don’t you remember first year? Don’t go scaring her any more than she already is. Don’t mind Scarlet,” Laurel added to Hermione. “She’s a Slytherin, ironically. They have an odd sense of humour.”

“Have you tried your wand yet?” asked Scarlet. “You can use it on the train.”

“Can I?” Hermione pulled out the box. The girls exclaimed over it.

“Ooh, it’s still in the Ollivander’s box. I don’t even know where mine is anymore.”

“You’re lucky you had a box. My first wand was secondhand.”

“You don’t have to keep it in the box, Hermione, you can carry it like your parents do so it’s always at hand.”

Hermione bit her lip, nodded, and noted where the girls had their wands stashed.

“What spell would you like to try?”

Hermione tried to think of spells unlikely to cause chaos on the train. “What was your first spell?”

“ _Ignio,_ ” Scarlet smirked.

Laurel shoved Scarlet again. “Or maybe something less likely to get her sent home immediately. How about _Lumos_?”

The three older girls cast, and held their lit wands, waiting. Hermione mentally went down the checklist for proper casting in _The Standard Book of Spells. Posture, breath, grip, intention, enunciation._ She sat up straight, held her wand the way Professor McGonagall had put it in her hand, and spoke carefully. The tip of her wand glowed. The older girls cheered.

Hermione bounced in her seat. “Give me another!”

Scarlet assessed her, intrigued and calculating. “Here’s a useful one,” she said, raising her arms to unclasp her necklace, an emerald pendant on a delicate chain. She gripped the chain in both hands and dispassionately pulled it in half, then laid the broken lengths on the seat between herself and Hermione.

“Didn’t you just get that for your birthday?” asked Sophelia.

Scarlet shrugged. “This is the way my parents taught me. There’s more of an incentive to get it right when there’s something important at stake. You don’t always have the luxury of a second chance. But you can do it, can’t you,” she said to Hermione. It was a statement, not a question. “The spell is _Reparo._ The wand motion is like this, a downward arc,” she demonstrated, “with a quick little wrapping motion at the bottom of the curve. Show me.”

Hermione imitated Scarlet’s wandwork.

“Again. Again. Faster. All right, do it.”

Hermione looked at the broken necklace and imagined it whole. She aligned her wrist with her elbow and the magic flowed, smooth and effortless, like a language she’d always known. “ _Reparo._ ” The broken links healed themselves, and the chain and pendant arranged themselves gracefully. The girls applauded and high-fived her.

Scarlet put her necklace back on. “Good as new. I knew you could do it. And now you know too.”

“You’ll do great,” said the other girls, and Hermione basked in their smiles.

She waited for the challenge of another spell or more discussion of the castle and classes, but they returned to their prior conversation.

“Soph, you were about to say. How was Quidditch camp?”

“I only went for two weeks this year because Mum made plans at Blue Mountain.”

“Is that the one with the potion spa?”

“Yes, and a restaurant that does fabulous Veelan Fusion.”

“Did your whole family go?”

“Everyone but Evie. She followed Bronze Cauldron on tour all summer.”

Hermione tried to listen to the conversation, nodding politely, but didn’t understand any of it. She wasn’t even sitting near the window to watch the countryside go by. She wondered again whether she ought simply to wander down the train when there was a knock at the compartment door. It opened on a distressed boy about her age.

“Sorry, but has anyone seen a toad in here?”

The older girls made a bit of a show of examining the floor and seats of the compartment. “No, sorry. Have you lost your pet?”

The boy nodded despondently.

“What’s its name?”

“Trevor.”

Sophelia raised her wand. “ _Accio_ Trevor the toad!” No toad flew into her hand. “Sorry, love.”

Hermione leapt to her feet. “Would you like help looking for him?” She pushed eagerly into the corridor without waiting for an answer. “Can you describe him? Size, color? Distinguishing markings? I’m Hermione Granger, by the way. What’s your name?”

* * *

Evening, Sunday, 1 September 1991: the Sorting

When Hermione’s name was called, she scampered to the stool with equal parts excitement and anxiety. She pulled the Sorting Hat down over her head and folded her hands nervously. “Hello, Sir,” she said in her head. The Hat said nothing. She feared she’d immediately given offense. “Er, I mean, hello, Ma’am.” Still nothing. “Greetings, O Venerable Hat?” she thought, near panic.

“Oh, I like you,” the Hat finally purred in her ear. “I wondered what I’d eventually hear if I let you keep talking, and you did not disappoint. ‘O Venerable Hat’ is a new one, and very little is new to me anymore. So, a Muggleborn, eh? Parents surprised, were they?”

“Yes, very,” Hermione admitted, even as she felt the Sorting Hat sift through her memories. “Is there a spell I’m to be tested on? I’ve memorised the entire Standard Book of Spells.”

“Yes, I can see that.” The Hat sounded amused. “Memorised every book, haven’t you? I don’t often see a new Muggleborn as prepared as you are. Hmm…methodical, analytical, conscientious, studious…ambitious, and willing to use unconventional means. Dragon heartstring wand, too. You’d make a fine Slytherin if that was all that mattered, but since it’s not—”

“Please put me in Gryffindor,” Hermione implored.

“Oh? You’re as typical a Ravenclaw as they come. Why Gryffindor?”

Hermione swallowed hard. _Because I returned to the picture of Godric Gryffindor every time I opened the book. Because I’m already clever and I want to be brave. Because the Gryffindors on the train looked happy. Because I want to wear the red and gold._

“And because you’re expected to be something else?” mused the Hat. “Can’t stop thinking about the word ‘shenanigans’? I’ll tell you a secret, little Muggleborn. A lot of people get placed in Gryffindor House because they ask to be. I’ll grant your wish, and I hope you find what you’re looking for. GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat shouted so the whole hall could hear.

“Thank you, O Venerable Hat,” thought Hermione, and the Hat laughed quietly one last time before she took it off and set it respectfully on the stool.

Dear Hermione,

It’s quite bizarre, having to treat an owl politely.

I won’t pretend we’re not disappointed that you weren’t put into Ravenclaw House. This whole business of being sorted by a mindreading hat is very strange and untrustworthy. Clearly the hat missed your most obvious and worthy quality. This ridiculous decision has set you on the wrong advancement path from the start. Perhaps there is an official appeal that can be made. If not, you’ll just have to make the best of it and work a bit harder to demonstrate to everyone how clever you are, despite your House.

Work hard. Make us proud.

Love, Dad and Mum

* * *

December 1991: coming home for Christmas

Leaving Hogwarts for Christmas was harder than Hermione had expected it to be. The trip home on the Hogwarts Express was long and lonely. She had a compartment to herself and talked to Ron and Harry in her head the whole time. She wished fervently that she could have stayed to run about the empty castle with them. When she considered the usual hectic schedule of family holiday gatherings and the prospect of having the same evasive conversation with every nosy relative, she wanted to cry.

Hermione knew she ought to change back into Muggle clothes before the train arrived at King’s Cross, but she only took her robes off, leaving her skirt, blouse, and Gryffindor tie. Her father harrumphed when he saw it, then sighed in resignation.

“Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. You’ll be an unorthodox Gryffindor, staying out of trouble.”

Hermione thought of a three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor, a mountain troll lying unconscious in the bathroom, and blue fire licking Snape’s robes. She smiled and said, “Of course!”

As she and her parents climbed into the car, Hermione asked, “So whose house are we visiting first this week? Grandma’s? Aunt Lillian’s?”

Her parents hesitated. “Well, love,” said her mother, “we can’t really do all that now. Everyone will have questions about your school.”

“Oh.” Hermione frowned. “So we’re all just staying at home?”

“We have to, don’t we. It’s either that or make up a school for you and lie about it at five different parties.”

“It would be a lot to ask of you,” her father said. “Not that it’s a bad thing to be, but you’re a very poor liar. Every thought you have crosses your face. We wouldn’t expect you to be able to keep up that kind of performance all week.”

“Would…would you be comfortable doing it yourselves, if you wanted to see everyone? You could make up information to tell people, I don’t mind. It’s not fair that you both have to miss out on seeing the whole family just because I’m — because of Hogwarts. I don’t mind being at home on my own. You know me, I could spend whole days at the library.”

Mr. and Mrs. Granger shared a thoughtful glance. “We’ll talk about it more later, after dinner,” said her father. “Meanwhile, tell us about your term so far.”

“I’m…working on a special research project over the holidays.”

“Homework to keep you focused!” Mr Granger nodded approvingly. “What’s the topic?”

“It’s a historical mystery I’m trying to solve, about a man named Nicholas Flamel.”

* * *

3 July 1992: coming home after First Year

On the train home, as Ron and Harry experimented their way through a package of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Hermione rehearsed all the things she could safely tell her parents.

Her year had been full of peril (both illicit and officially prescribed), disregard for rules, and, improbably, _shenanigans._ Her father would pull her from Hogwarts in a heartbeat, dangers of magical denial be damned, if he knew what sort of chaos reigned there.

Hermione couldn’t imagine going to any other school now.

She could tell them about the 142 staircases, the House ghosts, the subjects of her favourite paintings, and how Ron was teaching her chess.

She could not mention the baby dragon, nighttime detention in the Forbidden Forest, nor assisting Harry with Ron to defeat Voldemort.

Obviously.

When she passed back through the platform barrier with Ron and Harry, only her father was watching all the students emerge from the magical wall. Her mother was studying a train schedule with excessive intensity.

“Hello, Strawberry!” Mr. Granger tousled Hermione’s hair. “How’d we do?”

“First in my class!” Hermione beamed at him.

“Quite right,” he nodded. “We expected no less.”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hello, darling.” Mrs. Granger regarded Hermione’s Muggle clothes with satisfaction. “Back in the real world now, eh?”

Hermione wistfully touched her wand, still tucked in her blouse sleeve, then forced herself to smile as her father began pushing her trolley toward the station doors. “I have so much to tell you!”

* * *

Early evening, 4 July 1992: the next day

“Hermione, would you please fill the glasses and set the table?”

“Coming, Mum. _Lumos! Alohomora!_ ” Hermione came into the kitchen, murmuring spells and waving her empty hand.

Her mother frowned. “What have I said about that?”

“Sorry, I just don’t want to get out of practice. The movement is important.”

“Well, let’s have more movement toward those water glasses, please.”

“If I was at Hogwarts, I could fill those glasses instantly — _Aguamenti!_ — and then set the table without touching the plates — _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

“Yes, you’ve already told me about the marvellous spells for doing everything much more quickly at Hogwarts, and I’m dreadfully sorry you’re stuck doing tedious chores in your mundane ‘Muggle’ home all summer, but you’ll just have to find a way to cope.” Mrs. Granger banged the oven door shut.

“Sorry.” Hermione set the table quietly. “After dinner, I think I’ll write a letter to Harry.”

“Will you need one of those horrid owls to send it?”

“No, Harry lives with his Muggle family. I’ll just need a stamp.”

“Thank God, a stamp. Something I understand.” Mrs. Granger sat at the table next to Hermione. “So Harry has Muggle parents too?”

“No, his parents were magical, but they both died when he was a baby, so he’s been raised by his Muggle aunt and uncle.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Did they die of illness, or an accident?”

 _Oops._ Hermione’s gaze slid hesitantly toward her mother’s. It would be disrespectful to lie about this. “They…were murdered. During the war.”

“Wasn’t Harry born and raised in England?”

“He was. There was a war here then. A magical war.”

“Of course there wasn’t, the whole country would’ve noticed a magical war.”

“You didn’t notice all the magical people around you before one rang our doorbell.”

Hermione’s mother winced and looked toward the window as though she expected there to be wizards staring in from the yard. “Hermione, for God’s sake.”

“Sorry.”

Mrs. Granger shivered. “What is a magical war fought with? Flying monkeys? Substitutiary Locomotion?”

“No, Mum, this is real. There are spells for torturing and killing people.”

“Lovely. And here I was thinking perhaps wizards were wiser than the rest of us. I suppose magical ingenuity hasn’t eliminated war, but only worked out how to do it without the expense and inconvenience of artillery.”

“It was psychological, mostly. Not knowing if people you loved and trusted had been turned to the other side. Imagine if Dad kept acting normally, but he was observing you and informing on your loyalty, and you never knew whether he might betray you.”

“That’s…that’s utterly mundane war.” Mrs. Granger laughed mirthlessly. “We Muggles already mastered that kind of war.”

“Yes, but also imagine there was no way to tell whether Dad was acting consciously or he was being magically controlled, and—”

“No, thank you, I won’t imagine that.” Mrs. Granger put her hand to her mouth as she obviously imagined it. “That’s not magic, that’s _Invasion of the Body Snatchers._ That’s _The Twilight Zone._ ” She stared at Hermione, shocked. “Is this your magical world? Should I wonder whether you’re in your right mind every time you come home from school?”

“No, no, Mum, the war ended a long time ago, in 1981.”

“That’s only long to you because you’re twelve. It’s not long at all.” Mrs. Granger pensively stroked her thumb through the condensation on her water glass. “So Harry’s parents were in a war?”

“They were part of the resistance.”

“Against whom?”

Hermione fidgeted. “Some people felt that wizards from entirely magical families were better than wizards with only one magical parent or none, and they wanted not to be restricted by laws that protect Muggles. One of those wizards, Lord Voldemort, gained followers. They tried to take over the world.”

Hermione’s mother wet her lips. “The magical world.”

“The whole world.”

Mrs. Granger sipped from her glass and set it down with shaking hands. 

“So Harry’s parents were killed right near the end?”

“Their deaths were actually the last of the war. They opposed Voldemort and he killed them. He tried to kill Harry too, but something magical happened and Harry survived the attack, and Voldemort was defeated by it instead.”

“He died?”

“He just vanished. Most people assumed he’d died.”

“And what happened to all his followers?”

“Many are in prison.”

“But not all?”

“No, some said they were innocent because they’d been magically controlled.”

Hermione’s mother gripped her glass as though she feared it would leap away. “What would have happened if they’d won?”

Hermione played with the handle of her dinner knife. “I don’t know.”

“You do. You must. This is recent history for everyone at your school. If they’d won, would they have made slaves of us all? Or would they have just gone right for mass extermination?”

As she spoke the last words, they heard Hermione’s father return from his day at the dental office, pulling into the driveway and getting out of the car, cheerfully singing _La donna è mobile._ He stopped singing when he opened the front door and saw Hermione and her mother looking grave. “Hello, ladies! Sorry, am I interrupting?”

“No, I was just saying I’m going to write a letter to Harry.”

Mrs. Granger gave a dark, quiet laugh.

Mr. Granger grimaced. “You won’t need one of those filthy owls, will you?”

“No, just an envelope and a stamp.”

“Marvellous, refreshingly uncomplicated after the day I just had.”

Hermione watched her father take his shoes off just inside the door. “Dad, this evening, would you like to sit with the big book of logic puzzles and work through some together again? I found myself remembering one of them recently and it helped me think my way through a Potions exam.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Granger, pleased. “Yes, I’d enjoy that very much.” He walked into the kitchen and put his hand affectionately on Hermione’s head. “See, Elizabeth, she’s still our Strawberry. She hasn’t changed at all.”

* * *

Wednesday, 29 July 1992: shopping in Diagon Alley

“Here we are, the Leaky Cauldron. It’s just through here.”

“The leaky what? Why’ve you stopped here? You passed the door.”

“Not the book shop, the pub.”

“What pub? Look, the door is seven feet back there.”

“It’s glamoured so you can’t see it, but I promise we’re standing at the proper door.”

“It’s a brick wall. And it’s making me a bit queasy to look at it.”

“Merlin,” Hermione sighed. At a look from her mother, she amended, “I mean, my gosh. Dad, can you not see it either?”

“I cannot,” Mr. Granger confirmed. “Is this like the wall that leads to the train platform?”

“It’s similar. If I hold the door open, will you trust me that there is really an aperture to walk through?”

“‘An aperture _through which to walk,_ ’ Hermione.”

“Right, sorry.”

“I don’t like this at all,” said Mrs. Granger.

“I know, but if you won’t walk into the pub, we can’t get to the place where I have to buy my school things. You just have to be confident.”

Hermione’s mother ran her hand over the brick surface. “I’m confident this is an ordinary wall.”

“It’s not, and I can’t stand here convincing you. Everyone inside is staring at us. Dad, help?”

“I don’t care for this any more than you do, Elizabeth, but Hermione says we’re making a scene. We’ll all go together.”

Hermione seized her mother’s elbow and her father took the other. Together they propelled Mrs. Granger, with her eyes squeezed shut and feet resisting, through the open door.

They stood just inside, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The people in the pub were indeed staring, some annoyed, some amused.

“That was awful,” gasped Mrs. Granger.

Hermione patted her arm. “You were very brave.”

“I hate being brave. Will we need to walk through more walls today?”

“No, that was the only one with a door you can’t see.”

At the back of the pub there was a stout, blond, bearded man in a pink robe and a derby hat adorned with a daisy. He beckoned the Grangers over. “Got your permission form?”

Mr. Granger pulled the slip of parchment from his wallet. The wizard in the pink robe read it with relish:

ONE DAY ADMITTANCE TO DIAGON ALLEY  
FOR THE MUGGLES  
BENEDICT AND ELIZABETH GRANGER  
CHAPERONED BY THEIR DAUGHTER  
HERMIONE GRANGER, STUDENT OF HOGWARTS  
29 JULY 1992  


“Touch your wand to this spot next to your name, please,” he directed Hermione. To Mr. Granger he said, “First time to Diagon Alley?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you’ll love it, sir. It’s a sight few Muggles are ever lucky enough to behold, full of marvels and wonders. Better than Sidneyworld!”

“I look forward to it,” Mr. Granger said dryly.

The wizard pocketed the permission slip and bowed extravagantly to the Grangers, indicating the door they should leave by. The door opened slowly by itself, revealing the small, weedy courtyard and rubbish bin Hermione remembered. She led her parents to the brick wall by the bin.

“Hermione. If we’re in the middle of a fantastic magical marketplace, I can see only a nondescript courtyard.”

“We actually are in a nondescript courtyard, Dad, give me a moment.” Hermione counted her way around the wall and tapped what she hoped was the correct brick three times with her wand. As a hole appeared in the brick and started expanding, Hermione couldn’t help but pump her fist in quiet triumph. “ _Yes._ ”

“Yes, well done,” said her father, “but what a boorish gesture, Hermione. Where did you pick that up?”

“Sorry.” She led her parents through the fully-formed archway, which disappeared behind them.

Hermione looked out on Diagon Alley as if seeing it for the first time, aware that her parents were observing critically. She extended her arms in hopeful presentation. “Welcome to the magical world!”

Her mother read the sign on the nearby cauldron shop under her breath. “What the hell is a collapsible cauldron?” she muttered. “Why would anyone want one?”

“Oh, they store as flat discs,” Hermione offered eagerly. “You stand them on edge. Or, if you’re careless, you throw them in a pile on a shelf, but I never do that.”

“Certainly not. We didn’t raise you to strew your cauldrons,” Hermione’s mother said acerbically.

“Mum. Could you just…try to have a good time today? I’m glad to be here with you, finally.”

Mrs. Granger sighed and made a visible effort to relax her shoulders. “Of course, love. It’s just that none of it makes sense to me. It’s hard for me to understand how any of this can exist at all. But we’re here with you, so where do we start?” She smiled gamely.

“We need to go to the bank to exchange Muggle money for wizard money.” Hermione’s gaze was caught suddenly by a group of redheaded fellows ducking into each shop and running on to the next. “Oh! It’s them!”

“‘ _It is they,_ ’ Hermione,” said her father. “And about whom are we speaking?”

“Sorry. I think I just saw the Weasley family.”

“Where do they expect to meet you?”

“I told them I’d be at the bank.”

“Well, lead on, Macduff.”

Hermione’s father then explained, at length, the origin of the phrase “Lead on, Macduff” as they navigated the chaos of the street, weaving around shoppers, animals, signboards, displays of merchandise, and buskers juggling flames or playing magical instruments, all of which he ignored.

“…and the earliest known use of the misquote was at a political rally in Lincolnshire in 1855.”

“Dad,” she interrupted him, just to make him notice something, “look, that’s Harry’s broom, the latest model.” She pointed toward the Nimbus Two Thousand on display in the broom shop window as they walked past.

“I thought first-years weren’t allowed to have their own brooms,” her mother said.

“They’re usually not, but a special exception was made for Harry. He’s the youngest member of a Quidditch team at Hogwarts in a century.”

“He’s an athlete?” Mrs. Granger sniffed.

“Well, yes.”

“You’re wasting your time around athletes?”

“Everyone plays Quidditch, Dad. Every House has a team. Even Ravenclaw and Slytherin.”

“Will you be wanting a broom now?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“Definitely not. I don’t care for flying.”

“How do you know?”

“We all had flying classes.”

“I didn’t see any report of marks.”

“We weren’t given marks. It was an introduction. I think it was mainly to see who might eventually have aptitude for Quidditch.”

“You don’t even like standing on high balconies. How did you do on a broom?”

“Passably.” Hermione put her hands in her pockets.

“I confess ambivalence,” said her father. “On one hand, I’m relieved you haven’t decided you’d prefer to fly everywhere. On the other, you are attending a school of witchcraft, and what witch doesn’t fly on a broom? You can’t be a real witch and drive a car.”

“I can drive if I want to,” Hermione protested. “It’s too risky to fly in most places anyway. Eventually I’ll learn how to vanish from one place and instantly appear in another.”

Her mother looked startled. “They teach teleportation in magic school?”

“It’s called Apparition. We need to pass a test to be licensed to Apparate.”

“The noun is ‘apparition,’ but the verb is ‘apparate’? Why isn’t the noun ‘apparation’?”

“Is that really the important thing, Dad?”

They drew near the steps of Gringotts, Mr. Granger still muttering about how, if you ambulate, you have not performed ambulition.

Hermione’s parents hesitated as they approached the goblin minding the front door.

“Come on, don’t be rude.” Hermione urged her parents up the stairs and through the door. “I told you about this. They’re goblins, they own the bank, they’re going to exchange your money. Get in line and just give the cashier your notes when it’s your turn. I’m going to go outside a moment to see if I can find the Weasleys. I’ll be right back.”

When Hermione returned with seven perspiring Weasleys and a still-sooty Harry, Mr. Weasley greeted Hermione’s flustered parents with enthusiasm that echoed through the marble hall. “But you’re _Muggles!_ We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!”

After the cashier handed Mr. Granger a bag of coins, Hermione made breathless introductions.

“Mum, Dad, this is Ron’s family. Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Percy, Fred, George—”

Simultaneously, the twins interrupted. “I’m George.” “I’m Fred.”

“Very funny, but no.” Hermione continued smiling but glared at the twins, who looked impressed. Hermione pointed emphatically. “ _Fred. George._ And this is Ron, and Ginny, and Harry Potter. Everyone, these are my parents, the Grangers.”

Mr. Weasley pumped Hermione’s father’s hand energetically. “Arthur and Molly.”

“Benedict and Elizabeth.”

Arthur beamed. “Delighted to meet you, Ben.” Two small disgruntled lines appeared between Mr. Granger’s eyes. “And—”

“‘Elizabeth,’ please.” Hermione’s mother wore a tenacious smile. “Five children! I suppose they keep you running.”

“Seven, all told. Our eldest two are grown and out. A cursebreaker and a dragon keeper,” Molly said with pride.

“Oh yes, the dragons. No dragons at Hogwarts, though, I’m told.”

Ron murmured to Harry, “There’s about as much chance of there being a dragon at Hogwarts as there is of there being a giant three-headed dog.” Ron and Harry grinned at each other as Hermione tried to shut them up with her eyes.

Mr. Granger spotted Percy’s gleaming Prefect badge. “A prefect, are you, young Percival? A man of diligence and achievement!”

“Just Percy, sir. And yes, I’m a prefect.”

“You might assume that P stands for prefect,” snickered Fred.

George continued, “But it actually stands for preening pr—”

“That’s quite enough,” said Molly as a goblin beckoned the Weasleys to follow.

“I look forward to sitting with you for a bit,” Mr. Weasley said to Hermione’s parents. “I have so many questions about Muggle dentistry.”

Mr. Granger brightened. “Ask away, we’re at your service!” Mrs. Granger nodded with feigned gusto.

“Meet you back here,” said Ron to Hermione, and Hermione watched everyone walk after the goblin guide.

“Seven children,” Mrs. Granger muttered. “What does Arthur do for a living?”

“He works for the Ministry of Magic,” said Hermione, “in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“The misuse of I beg your pardon?”

“It’s an office that helps Muggles when a witch or wizard has charmed some ordinary Muggle-made object to…” Hermione noticed both her parents listening with concern. “…to…behave…inappropriately.”

“Ah.” Her father crossed his arms. “Inappropriate in what way?”

“Just,” Hermione bit her lip, “doing what they oughtn’t.”

“Hermione Jean, do not prevaricate.”

To avoid looking at her parents as she spoke, Hermione watched the goblins behind the counter evaluate jewels under a light. “It’s common for small things like keys to be charmed to shrink, so the owner thinks they’ve been lost. It’s a prank called Muggle-baiting. Sometimes objects are charmed to be rather more…aggressive.”

“Are they?” her mother whispered fearfully. “And then what?”

“Then Mr. Weasley and his partner show up to confiscate the items.”

“But how do they explain it without violating the rules about revealing magic to Muggles?”

“They can’t. The Muggle’s memory is altered so they won’t remember being a victim of malicious magic.”

“Oh my God.” Mrs. Granger looked out on the street full of wizards and witches. “How would we know if we’ve ever been victims of, what did you call it, Muggle artifact misuse? _Have_ we been? Would you tell us if we were?”

“You haven’t been.”

“But how do we _know?_ How do we know _you_ haven’t been sworn to secrecy?”

“Mum! Listen to what you’re saying! Of course I would tell you the truth!”

Hermione’s mother glared at her, then dropped her gaze and took a deep breath. “I trust you, I do, I just…never knew there were such things to be afraid of.”

“Don’t be afraid of me, Mum. I’m on your side.” 

The Weasleys and Harry reappeared at the far end of the hall, back from the underground vaults.

Mr. Granger raised an eyebrow at his wife. “Ready to talk shop, my dear?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be a relief to discuss something familiar, even if I have to drink a Shrieking Shake or a Leviosa Lager while I talk. Did you see the menu board in the pub?”

As they all left the bank together, the twins saw Lee Jordan in the street, and hailed him.

“Hello, Assorted Weasleys!” Lee greeted them. “Oi, Mrs. Weasley, Zonko’s has new seed packets for Flatulent Foxglove and Belching Bellflower! Want me to pick some up for your garden? I hear you’re having a gnome problem again.” He grinned up at her.

“Oh, you,” Mrs. Weasley scoffed affectionately. “Not today, Lee, but thank you.”

“Later, Mum!” The twins ran down the steps toward Lee. Percy said he was off to the stationery shop.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks. And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she yelled at the twins. To Mrs. Granger, she said, confidentially, “The worst of it is that those infernal flowers really are excellent gnome repellants, but the sounds they make are appalling.”

“I can only imagine,” said Hermione’s mother.

“Our neighbour actually plants to _attract_ gnomes, can you imagine? He has a Dirigible Plum tree that brings them from all over the county. He thinks their bites confer extraordinary abilities, bless him. He’s pleasant enough, but he’s a Ravenclaw, and you know what _they’re_ like.”

“Enamored of garden statuary, apparently, though I wasn’t aware of the biting.”

“Molly, do let me bring these lovely people to have a drink. We’ll see you at the book shop. It looked to me like there was some preparation underway when we were looking for Harry earlier. Maybe Horace Tyburn is back for another poetry reading.”

“Oh, good, a nice, quiet crowd, then.”

Mr. Granger squeezed Hermione’s shoulders. “See you soon.”

“Enjoy your Leviosa Lager.” She smiled up at him.

Mr. Weasley led Hermione’s parents back up the street, toward the Leaky Cauldron. “So, tell me, Ben, how you came to study the care of teeth!” Mr. Granger looked back over his shoulder and gave Hermione a comically hapless grimace. Hermione laughed and waved.

* * *

Two hours later

Hermione said goodbye to the Weasleys and Harry as they all stood in the Leaky Cauldron. Arthur Weasley still had a swollen, bloody lip. The barman saluted with respect until Molly Weasley glowered at him.

“It’s going to be a long bus ride home,” Hermione whispered to Ron as they said goodbye. Arthur overheard the word “bus” and perked up. “Will you be using the bus stop right outside this door? I’ve never used a bus stop, though I should very much like to. Do you think—” Molly pivoted fiercely to scowl at him too and he stopped talking.

Nobody spoke during the entire bus ride back to the station. As soon as they were all in the car, her father swore, “By Jove,” with aggrieved sincerity, as if imploring Jupiter himself to bear witness to the scandal.

Hermione braced herself.

“If that’s your magical world, Hermione, so far I’m not impressed. Your mother and I were greeted from the first with the rudest gawking. We were subjected to an ignorant and offensive interrogation about our livelihoods. Finally, we were informed that being in our company disgraces the name of wizard. For some reason even the goblin in the bank seemed to regard your mother’s wedding ring with open disdain. Call me oversensitive, but I believe we may not have been welcome.”

“I’m sure nobody meant to be obnoxious. It’s just extremely unusual to see Muggles in Diagon Alley. And what do you mean, ‘ignorant and offensive’? Mr. Weasley loves Muggles and Muggle technology.”

“That’s not love. It was the most condescending validation and encouragement, as though we were children or particularly bright animals. You would have thought we’ve been performing oral surgery with stone axes from the way he spoke about it. His interest was macabre. He wanted to hear descriptions of the anesthetics, the metal tools, and especially the drill. It made me ashamed to talk about it.”

Mrs. Granger nodded. “And at the end he said isn’t it too bad that magic can’t be used on Muggles, because then everyone could just have their teeth fixed instantly and without pain!”

Hermione thought Mr. Weasley was objectively correct, but kept that opinion to herself.

“He asked how we _resize_ people’s teeth, of all things,” her mother continued. “If people discover magical dentistry it would be the end of everything we studied and worked to accomplish. It would all be instantly obsolete.” She looked over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at Hermione. “ _You_ could make it all obsolete.”

“I’m not going to be a magical dentist. But be honest, if you could fix people’s teeth with magic, wouldn’t you?”

“I certainly would not. Some things are worth doing properly, without cheating.”

“Magic is not _cheating!_ ”

“Isn’t it?” asked Mr. Granger. "You’ve been telling us all summer how you could boil water instantly, or make the mop clean the floor by itself, if only you were at Hogwarts! I don’t think you’re learning the value of patience and hard work.”

“Plenty of magic requires patience and hard work. And since when is the measure of a job well done how long it takes to do it?”

“There has to be time for deliberation and correction. When you can just wave a stick and say ‘Presto!’ you can make a serious mistake instantly.”

“You can make serious mistakes instantly without magic, too. You can’t just do nothing forever for fear of making any mistakes at all. Sometimes you just have to _do_ something.”

“Those Gryffindors are rubbing off on you and I don’t like it. We didn’t raise you to be rash.”

“It’s not rashness, it’s courage.”

Her father snorted. “Oh yes, the famous Gryffindor nerve. I expect you had to be very brave while—” he gestured dismissively “—learning to open doors locked against you.”

Hermione bit her lip. _Yes, actually._

“You’re learning parlor tricks, shortcuts, and lawlessness, nothing of value in the real world.”

“The wizarding world _is_ the real world. Today you were in a whole magical district that’s existed right in London for hundreds of years. We didn’t go to Narnia.”

“It may as well have been Narnia,” said her mother, “with hidden doorways and strange creatures and animals who understand what you say. It’s madness. I wondered if every object was really something else in disguise. I’m still wondering if I’ve ever been given a shrinking key.”

“I told you, you haven’t!”

“But apparently I might, someday, and what will happen when you have to choose between telling us the truth and obeying the magical rules?”

“I would choose you. You’re my parents. But it’s not going to come to that. Yes, there are rules to keep everyone separate and safe, but I love you _and_ the magical world.”

“I think you love the magical world more than it loves you. There was an actual brawl today about your right to be there.”

“Oh, that’s just Draco Malfoy’s father!” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Their family is quite old, magical all the way back, and I still beat Draco in every subject.”

Hermione’s mother laughed bitterly. “School marks don’t matter for that sort. When you’re that rich, you buy positions for your children. Whatever position you’d want at the end of your education, that man, or someone just like him, will be the one considering you. Did you see the way he looked at you, and us? Like we were filth on his boots.”

“He’s a bigot. He doesn’t get to say whether I belong there or not.”

“Was he on the bad side in the war?”

“What war?” Mr. Granger asked sharply.

“There was a war between magical bigots and everyone else, and the bigots _lost,_ ” Hermione snapped. “Mr. Malfoy was one of the ones who said he’d been magically compelled, so he stayed out of prison.”

“Magically compelled?”

“Yes, isn’t the magical world amazing?” Mrs. Granger raised her hands in sarcastic awe. “Full of marvels and wonders!”

“ _Stop,_ ” said Hermione. “I’m sorry you had to see that fight today, and I’m sorry we ran into the worst possible person, and I’m sorry Mr. Weasley unintentionally insulted you. But please stop running down Hogwarts and the magical world. I’m comfortable there. I’m learning things worth knowing. I have friends.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Mr. Granger softened his tone. “I understand you feel that way, but I’m concerned. If you decided to change schools, it’s not too late to get back on track. Nobody needs to know you’re…atypical.”

“I don’t think I can safely leave after only one year. Besides, you saw the famous author who’s going to be my new professor this year. I’m going to learn so much! You’ll see when you read his books. He’s a Ravenclaw.”

“Oh, is he? I thought he looked like a sharp thinker.”

“I thought he looked like Sting crossed with P.T. Barnum,” Mrs. Granger said wryly. “But are you sure you can’t switch schools? I don’t want anyone looking at you like that ever again.”

“Hogwarts accepts me more than any Muggle school possibly could. Trust me, it’s the safest possible school for me.”

* * *

Christmas night, 1992

“Good lord, this brings me back.” Madam Pomfrey surveyed Hermione’s pointed ears, her yellow eyes, her long whiskers, and her black fur. “Well, come in, child, and we’ll get you into a bed.”

“Will Hermione need to stay overnight?” asked Harry.

“She’ll be here for quite a bit longer than that, Mr. Potter. Regrowing an arm’s worth of bones is a mere flick of the wand by comparison.”

Harry winced. “Will it hurt?”

“No, no, it’ll just take weeks.”

“Weeks?” gasped Hermione, Harry, and Ron all at once.

“Weeks. Probably close to a month.” Madam Pomfrey pulled her wand from her sleeve. “ _Expecto Patronum._ ” A tiny luminous hummingbird emerged from her wand. Madam Pomfrey dictated, “Not another attack, but I have one of your cubs here.” The hummingbird flew off. “Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, please have a seat.” She indicated a row of visitors’ chairs some distance from the bed, and set a screen so Hermione could change into a hospital gown with a hole made for her tail.

When Ron spotted Colin Creevey’s bed, surrounded by high curtains, he nudged Harry. “Is that him?”

Harry nodded.

“Hang on, mate, we’re working on it,” Ron whispered toward the hidden bed.

Minerva McGonagall strode into the infirmary, Christmas merriment still coloring her cheeks. She first saw Ron and Harry. “If you’re both here…” She looked toward the screened bed, eyes wide with concern.

“She’s fine, Min, but I thought you’d want to see this for yourself,” said Madam Pomfrey, and she led Minerva around the screen.

Hermione looked miserably at her Head of House, and was astonished when Minerva gave an undignified snort and tried unsuccessfully to cover her smile.

“Oh, does this take me back,” Minerva said fondly.

“That’s what I said! Evans, wasn’t it?”

“I still think Horace put her up to it somehow. He never was able to resist talking about the rough edges of magic,” Minerva sighed. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, you may return to the tower. In the morning, I will arrange for you to retrieve Miss Granger’s effects from her dormitory. You may come and wish her a peaceful evening.”

Madam Pomfrey measured out a glass of fizzing blue potion and handed it to Hermione. “Down the hatch, dear. Get used to the taste, you’ll have a lot of it.”

“Happy Christmas.” Hermione glumly saluted Ron and Harry with the glass.

“We’ll come back in the morning,” Ron promised.

“You were brilliant,” said Harry, and Ron nodded.

“You too.” Hermione smiled weakly.

After Hermione watched them leave the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey took the empty potion glass. “Would you like tea, either of you?”

“Tea would be lovely, Poppy, thank you.” Minerva summoned one of the visitors’ chairs and sat at Hermione’s bedside. With Madam Pomfrey back in her office to make tea, Minerva murmured, “Go on, I can imagine what that fizz feels like on your whiskers.”

Relieved and mortified, Hermione licked her furry wrist and wiped her whiskers, repeating until she didn’t feel sticky anymore.

“Thank you. I’m sorry.” She blushed under her fur.

“I won’t tell a soul.” Minerva settled back into her chair and watched Hermione’s turning, twitching ears. “I have my suspicions, obviously, but I want to hear it from you. What was it?”

“Polyjuice Potion with a cat hair,” Hermione whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to be a cat. Am I going to be expelled?”

Minerva laughed. “Expel a top student? Certainly not, we’re going to keep you right where we can keep an eye on you. We will have to Owl your parents about this, though, as per school policy.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Hermione begged as her tail puffed out with fear. “Please, please don’t. My mother will die where she stands if she hears I’ve actually turned myself into a cat.”

“You’ve broken several school rules, just from what’s evident in front of me. You’ll miss a month of classes.”

“I know, but it was for a good reason. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Please believe me.” Hermione twisted her hands in her blanket, nearly sobbing.

“I will not contact your parents,” said Minerva, holding up a hand to forestall Hermione’s thanks, “ _if_ you tell me exactly what you did, and why.” She glanced at Hermione’s ears. “And you’re wearing a form in which you cannot lie to me, Miss I-Went-Looking-For-the-Troll.”

Hermione blushed again. “This one actually was all my plan.”

Minerva raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s hear it.”

Ten minutes later, both Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall were sympathizing with Hermione, who’d finished her story by recounting all the cruel and gleeful teasing she’d endured from Moaning Myrtle for an hour while Ron and Harry questioned Draco Malfoy.

“That poor girl,” said Minerva. “If she’s determined to stay here, I wish she’d put her afterlife to better use. Well, Poppy, what do you think? Is the taking of points required?”

Hermione held her breath.

Madam Pomfrey counted on her fingers. “There’s brewing a potion in an unauthorized location, theft of ingredients, stealing from the school laundry, drugging students, and administering and consuming said potion. And that’s just Miss Granger’s part. There’s also mischief in a classroom, impersonating other students, and gaining illicit access to another House.”

Minerva nodded. “However, there’s the initiative to even try making an extremely complex and time-consuming potion, successfully brewing it in a difficult place, and the brewing of a Sleeping Draught, all for the purpose of gaining information about a dire and ongoing threat to the school from the person most likely to have that information.”

“What’s the final calculation of points taken and awarded?” asked Madam Pomfrey.

“Seems about even to me, especially because I didn’t personally observe any of it except a student presenting with a mysterious and rare but temporary affliction.”

Poppy and Minerva clinked their mugs together.

“Miss Granger, as the Muggles say, you are grounded. I penalize you with confinement to the hospital wing for the duration of your malady. You will be expected to stay up to date with your studies and complete your homework in the usual fashion.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Hermione wiped her eyes with her bedsheet.

“And since I understand it’s your habit to supplement your required reading with extracurricular books from the library…Poppy, may Miss Granger look through your medical library when her daily schoolwork is finished?” Minerva smiled knowingly as Hermione’s yellow eyes lit up. “Since she shows promise as a Potioneer, she might as well be familiar with the herbs and tinctures of the Healing vocation.”  


May 1993

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

In accordance with school policy, I must regretfully inform you that Hermione has been seriously magically injured while at Hogwarts. She has been petrified, frozen as if turned to stone. (This is not to be confused with either literally being frozen nor literally being turned to stone, which are entirely different magical injuries.)

The cause of this petrification is yet unknown. I’m happy to say petrification is a condition with a reliable cure, the Mandrake Restorative Draught. Please see the enclosed literature on the Mandrake plant and its magical properties.

While it is unfortunate that Hermione cannot attend classes, nor receive any instruction in her current state, she is safely ensconced in the Hogwarts infirmary. Unfortunately, you are not permitted to visit her, and she wouldn’t be aware of your presence even if you were.

Please don’t worry. She’ll survive this experience and be none the worse for it.

Yours,

Minerva McGonagall

* * *

3 July 1993: coming home after Second Year

Hermione rehearsed on the train, but didn’t have a chance to tell her parents about the Deathday party, nor to show them the coat buttons she’d made from beetles in Transfiguration.

She was greeted with strong but subdued hugs when she emerged from platform nine and three-quarters.

“We were so worried about you,” her mother murmured into the top of Hermione’s head.

“Not here, Elizabeth.” Mr. Granger glanced warily at the people milling past.

Once in the car, Mr. Granger fixed Hermione with a glare in the rear view mirror. “I recall telling you I didn’t want to receive any owl letters that you’d hurt yourself.”

“You said ‘mortally wounded.’ And I wasn’t.”

“Don’t argue semantics with me, young lady, you’ve no idea how distraught we were, getting a letter that you’d been petrified, but not to worry, you’d be right as rain as soon as the screaming plants were ready. And we couldn’t even visit you, much less move you to a proper hospital.”

“A Muggle hospital would have had no idea what to do with me, and you only would have made it necessary for the Ministry of Magic to Obliviate a hospital‘s entire staff.”

“I still hate this whole business of Obliviation,” said Hermione’s mother. “Every time I forget someone’s name or miss a familiar road while driving, I wonder whether my memory’s been erased.”

“Nobody’s Obliviated you, and the rules exist to keep everyone safe.”

“All this talk of safety is starting to seem a bit hollow. What does it mean to be kept safe in a school where you can be petrified?”

“You might as well be upset that I got stung by a wasp, Dad. I just crossed an animal’s path at the wrong time and it did what’s in its nature to do.”

“Which animal?”

“A basilisk.”

“Be serious.”

“I’m not joking. We’re literally talking about what kind of animal magically petrified me in my magical school, and you draw the line at hearing it was a basilisk?”

“Isn’t a basilisk the monster that’s supposed to come from a chicken egg hatched under a toad? Toads don’t just find incongruous chicken eggs and decide to sit on them until they hatch.”

“Would you prefer there be feral, naturally-breeding populations of basilisks? If I find one in the woods and it follows me home, can I keep it?”

“There’s no call for that kind of attitude. And it’s ‘ _may_ I keep it.’ And no, you may not.”

“Sorry.” Hermione stared out the window. “Can we just be glad I’m all right instead of arguing about whether the thing that petrified me exists or not?”

“We are glad, darling. We just don’t understand.” Hermione’s mother turned in her seat to talk to her. “Where did it come from? Did someone leave the lid off a classroom reptile tank?”

Hermione laughed. “It’s not a creature we study up close. And this one was big, probably many hundreds of years old.”

“And it just somehow got into the school and was running around, petrifying people at random?”

Hermione met her mother’s anxious eyes. “Yep, just a nuisance on the loose. Every old magical castle in Europe has them from time to time. Cacophonous Crickets in the hallways, vampire squirrels in the chapel, basilisks in the pipes.”

Mrs. Granger shuddered. “It sounds ghastly. And the administration of the Mandrake Restorative Draught, did it go well? Did it hurt? How do they give you a draught if your body is immobilised? Do they paint it around your face until you can open your mouth?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t aware of the dosing until it had worked.” With effort, Hermione kept the lie out of her eyes, remembering the agonizingly slow burn of the magic working its way through her rigid body.

“What of the author, Lockhart? I’d think he would have known instantly what the culprit was.”

“Oh, Dad.” Unexpected tears welled in Hermione’s eyes. “He turned out to be a complete fraud. He was utterly useless and he accidentally harmed himself in the end. He’s in hospital now. I’m still upset about it.”

Hermione’s father found her again in the mirror, eyes wide with surprise. “Er. He did? Oh, that is disappointing. I’m sorry, Strawberry.” He seemed to struggle with a thought. “I was going to wait to surprise you at home, but…” He looked to his side and asked a silent question of Mrs. Granger, who nodded. “How would you like to go to France for vacation this summer?”

* * *

July 1993

“We’ve been to three libraries, the homes of two very surprised strangers, a field, a forest, a church, and a graveyard. I said I was happy to help you do research for your schoolwork, but I really don’t plan to spend our entire holiday looking for a witch who lived 600 years ago.”

“She’s not just a witch, Mum! She’s a legend! Or she should be, if she hadn’t been made a laughingstock in all the history books. She’s mocked and disrespected and her accomplishments have been forgotten! Don’t you want me to discover and reveal the truth about her?”

“Your intentions are admirable, but this is our family holiday.”

“I just have one more lead to follow, Dad, I promise!”

“That’s what you said after the last two.”

“Yes, but now I have the address of one of her actual descendants! He might have objects she owned, or images of her! What if he actually has her wand?”

As the Grangers all piled back into their rented car, Hermione looked over her research notes on a page covered in her tiny handwriting.  


      
Andelaine de la Warde was a witch of extraordinary skill who saved no fewer than 47 Muggles from being arrested and put to death by greedy witchfinders in the 14th century. After she freed each Muggle from prison, her family helped them escape town. Andelaine employed multiple complex potions, spells, and glamours to take each Muggle’s place and impersonate them all through their complete executions. She did this until a Muggle-hating pureblood wizard put a stop to it by leading an attack against her family. There was a terrible fight which nearly exposed all the genuine magical folk in the area. Andelaine and her family were forced to flee and disappear. Pureblood historians have ensured she is remembered not as a heroic figure, but as a laughable, foolish witch who enjoyed the sensation of being “burned.”

* * *

PERMISSION GRANTED  
FOR OUR DAUGHTER  
HERMIONE GRANGER  
THIRD-YEAR STUDENT OF HOGWARTS  
TO ENJOY EXCURSIONS INTO THE VILLAGE OF HOGSMEADE  
AND  
TO BE ENTRUSTED WITH A TIME-TURNER  
IN ORDER TO AVAIL HERSELF OF A MORE EXTENSIVE EDUCATION

Benedict Granger  
Elizabeth Granger  
1 August 1993

I, HERMIONE GRANGER, CONFIRM THAT I UNDERSTAND THE RESTRICTIONS AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF USING A TIME-TURNER. I SOLEMNLY SWEAR NEVER TO USE THE TIME-TURNER FOR ANY PURPOSE OTHER THAN THAT FOR WHICH IT IS ISSUED. SHOULD I VIOLATE THIS AGREEMENT, I UNDERSTAND THAT THE HOGWARTS HEADMASTER, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, WILL BE INSTANTLY ALERTED.

Hermione J. Granger  
1 August 1993

“There.” Hermione signed the parchment. “Now they’ll let me take every class offered for my year.”

“Good,” said her father. “I think Muggle Studies especially will be beneficial. Proper mathematics, literature, history, I hope. It’s not right that you get the magic newspaper delivered here but you don’t keep up with current events while at Hogwarts. You need to keep a foot in the real world.”

Mrs. Granger shushed him to listen intently to a news broadcast about an escaped convict.

“The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately,” urged the reporter.

Mr. Granger sighed. “On the other hand, it must be nice to leave some ordinary concerns behind. Nothing so mundane as an escaped convict will ever menace you at Hogwarts.”

“Speaking of keeping connected between home and school,” Hermione began hopefully, “I was wondering if it would be okay if I bought an owl this year, so I don’t have to rely on random school owls or friends’ owls miraculously showing up at the right time like Hedwig did in France.”

“‘Neither random school owls _nor_ friends’ owls,’ Hermione.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“If you can promise it will be quiet, and that there won’t be feathers all over the house, yes, I believe an owl would be a practical acquisition from which we’ll all benefit while you’re obliged to attend Hogwarts.” He paused. “How much longer will you be obliged to attend Hogwarts? Has anyone said whether you’ve received enough training to manage your…difference?”

“Please don’t say it like it’s an illness. And I assume the full course of study is recommended.”

“We’re still open to more conventional options.”

“Still not wanting to transfer.”

“I know. Let’s just keep all possibilities in mind.”

* * *

September 1993

My dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

Please be advised that the issue with Hermione’s work for her History of Magic class has been resolved. The professor has been prevailed upon to expunge Hermione’s poor grade and to give proper credit for her summer work. The professor has been teaching from the same history texts for many years, and was displeased to be told he must annotate the books with corrections to all references to Andelaine de la Warde.

By way of both apology and commendation, Hermione has been invited to submit her work for inclusion in the Hogwarts library, in the section dedicated to student theses. It’s an extraordinary achievement for one so young, and we will be honored to offer her work among that of some of the greatest magical scholars who ever put quill to parchment. Congratulations on raising a witch of tremendous insight, determination, and conviction. We are lucky to have her here.

Yours sincerely,

Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore  
Headmaster

* * *

3 July 1994: coming home after Third Year

Hermione placed Crookshanks’s carrier on the trolley with her trunk and whispered, “This is going to be awkward for a minute. I’m sorry.” Crookshanks blinked tolerantly.

When Hermione found her parents in the station, her mother stepped forward to greet her, then stopped short.

“Good lord, darling, you are absolutely covered in cat fur.” Mrs. Granger wrinkled her nose. “Which friend owns the cat? Give it back before we accidentally take it home.”

“He’s mine. His name is Crookshanks.”

“What? No. Where’s the owl?”

“I got a cat instead. Isn’t he beautiful? He’s very clever, too.”

“I had noticed that we kept receiving assorted owls,” said Mr. Granger. “I thought we’d agreed you’d get a practical pet.”

“I promised that the pet I got would be quiet and not leave feathers all over the house.”

Her father raised an exasperated eyebrow.

“Yes, you’re right, I did expect to get an owl, and I’m sorry for the surprise,” Hermione rushed on. “But I saw Crookshanks in the shop and he just called to me. Figuratively. He’s actually very quiet. You won’t even notice him. Please, I’ve had him all year, we’re quite attached now.”

“Apparently we have no choice.” Mrs. Granger regarded Crookshanks with deep dislike. Crookshanks returned the expression. “Ugh, I’ve never liked cats. Well, let’s go, then.”

In the car, as Hermione secured Crookshanks’s carrier next to her, Mr. Granger said, “So, what else of note happened this year, besides the acquisition of a cat?”

After finally revealing Crookshanks to her parents, Hermione suddenly felt weary of the annual deceitful tap dance. Knowing her parents wouldn’t believe any of it, she threw discretion to the wind. “Ron’s pet rat turned out to be a criminal in disguise, the professor who replaced the author turned out to be a werewolf, and I flew on a creature that was half horse, half eagle.”

Her parents both looked at her blankly.

“Oh, and I slapped Draco Malfoy in the face for being obnoxious.”

Hermione’s mother laughed with relief. “Now I know you’re having us on. You had me going for a minute there. But seriously, what did you do this year?”

“I learned to turn a teapot into a tortoise.”

“More parlor tricks,” muttered Mr. Granger.

* * *

August 1994: shopping for Fourth Year

Hermione bought every other item on her school list before finally venturing into the robe shop. In addition to the usual new uniform, the list this year required _dress robes._ Hermione couldn’t imagine why, but it was on the list, so she had no choice.

Madam Malkin was busy fitting a young student with Hogwarts robes when Hermione walked in. The girl’s family — two adults and an older sister, all in Muggle clothing — stood a few feet away, grinning and giving enthusiastic thumbs-up to the child standing on the footstool. The girl took in Hermione’s Muggle jeans and t-shirt and smiled shyly. Hermione waved.

“ _Two_ witches in the family, how lucky can we get!” The girl’s mother beamed euphorically at Hermione. “And they get to go to magic school! We’re so jealous.”

 _Envious,_ said Hermione’s father’s voice in her head. _They’re envious, not jealous._

_Shut up, Dad._

“It’s lovely how excited you are about it,” Hermione answered.

“Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t be excited? Look at that uniform!”

Hermione smiled. “It’s traditional.”

“I know! Magic traditions! Amazing!”

Madam Malkin finished pinning the girl’s robes and stood to help her off the footstool. “That’s you done, my dear. Come back in an hour.” She hung the girls’ pinned robes on mannequins and set charmed needles to work.

“Thank you so much.” The girls’ father wrung Madam Malkin’s hand while their mother mentioned some very intriguing new ice cream flavors she’d seen on the sign outside Fortescue’s. Madam Malkin turned her attention to Hermione.

“Hello, it’s nice to see you again. The usual?”

“Yes, but also—”

“Dress robes? Whatever’s happening at Hogwarts this year, it’ll be festive! Half the school will be wearing my robes. I wish I could come see it. What style did you have in mind?”

“I…don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I don’t actually know anything about fine robes. I was hoping you could suggest something.”

A magical tape measure began flying around Hermione, and Madam Malkin rubbed her hands together, peering at Hermione’s hair and eye color. “Oh yes, I’d be delighted. Let’s have some fun.”

Hours later, Hermione modeled her new blue dress robe and shoes for her parents, feeling uncharacteristically fancy.

“So this is what witches wear for formal events,” said her mother. “I admit I’m surprised it’s an actual color.”

“It’s a Chaia Levine original, brand new for this season.”

“And what do you think will be happening that requires this?” asked her father.

“I’ve really no idea. There haven’t been any formal events at Hogwarts while I’ve been there.”

“I hope it’s not a dance. The last thing you need is the distraction of worrying about being asked to a dance.”

“I’m sure I would find a way to cope with attending a dance,” Hermione said dryly. “Or do you think I wouldn’t be asked?”

“Either way, you need to focus on your schoolwork and not on competing with the pretty girls for attention.” He tapped his head. “It’s your mind that counts.”

Hermione smoothed the fine fabric of her robe, nodded, and said nothing.

* * *

3 July 1995: coming home after Fourth Year

Hermione greeted her parents while keeping her mouth carefully closed, but the ploy soon failed.

“I’m so glad to see you, love,” said her mother.

“Mhm,” Hermione responded, face hidden against her mother’s jacket.

Her father noticed, and when Hermione turned to hug him hello, he held her at arm’s length.

“What’s different about you?” he asked.

“Bit taller?” Hermione tried.

“No, it’s your face. What’s happened to your face?”

“Please don’t be upset.”

“Oh my God, it’s her teeth,” gasped Hermione’s mother. “She’s done something to her teeth.”

“I didn’t do it, my teeth were jinxed by Draco Malfoy and the school nurse sorted me out.”

“What does that even mean, ‘your teeth were jinxed'?”

“Dad, could we do this outside instead of the middle of the station?”

Hermione stalked on through the station with her trolley, forcing her parents to follow her.

“Yes, indeed, we have some things to discuss in the car,” Mr. Granger muttered.

At the car, Hermione kept her word to Rita Skeeter and let her out of the glass bottle, hoping Rita hadn’t overheard much of the tense conversation with the Grangers. Hermione had hoped to have one last word with Rita, but was forced to grant an unceremonious release.

“What’s that?” asked her mother.

“A cruel and opportunistic journalist who is temporarily a beetle,” Hermione snapped.

“The bug is a _person?_ ” gasped her mother.

“She deserves worse than what she got. But you were interested in the jinxing of my teeth. The exact spell was _Densaugeo,_ from the Latin words for ‘tooth’ and ‘grow’. The spell was cast by Draco Malfoy, the boy I slapped last year, and it was actually meant for Harry. The spell caused my front teeth to grow down to here,” she flattened her hand at her collarbones, “and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, shrank them again.” This speech was punctuated with forceful opening and slamming of doors to load her trunk and Crookshanks’s carrier into the car.

“You know we instructed you not to alter your teeth with magic. We don’t often give you specific prohibitions. Could you not adhere even to this single one?” her father fumed as he and Hermione’s mother climbed in.

“The boy you slapped? You were serious?” said Mrs. Granger, slowly connecting dots.

“I _didn’t_ alter my teeth with magic, it was done by other people. After the initial damage, you couldn’t have expected me not to go have it fixed. At least I had it done by the resident medical professional rather than giving it a try myself.”

“But she didn’t even ask for our input,” sputtered her father. “No owl, nothing. They should have asked our permission before using magic on your _teeth!_ ”

“There’s nothing special about teeth,” spat Hermione. “Students at Hogwarts hex each other all the time, and it either wears off or an adult fixes it. Two of Ron’s brothers spent this whole year turning our housemates into canaries.”

“I’m guessing not Percy. I knew the other two were trouble.” Hermione’s father drummed his fingers angrily on the steering wheel. “I still don’t understand how any of this is allowed. Aren’t there rules? Or are rules only for Muggles?"

Hermione’s mother was still making horrified connections. “If you really did slap a boy, was the professor really a werewolf?”

“Yes, and I really did ride a Hippogriff and turn a teapot into a tortoise. This year, there was an international magical tournament at Hogwarts with two visiting schools, and I saw dragons, and I did get invited to a formal ball, and a Hogwarts student competing in the tournament was killed by the man who used to be the Weasleys’ pet rat but was actually the man who betrayed Harry’s parents. And Voldemort has a new body and his devoted followers are reassembling. So my teeth aren’t all that important!”

Her mother twisted around in her seat. “I understood almost none of that, but Lord Voldemort has returned?”

Hermione nodded.

“And his followers are gathering again? What does it mean?”

“It means we finally have grounds to keep her away from it all, since she’s at risk whether she attends Hogwarts or not,” her father interjected.

“I’m not leaving. It’s where I belong.”

“You belong with us. You were ours for almost twelve years before you found out about the other sort. I don’t care at all for the way they’re changing you. Not just your appearance, but worse, your character and comportment have been deteriorating ever since you first started. I don’t even recognise you.”

“It’s my community. I have to help protect it.”

“Your community is _here._ Your old school, the library, our neighbors, our dental office. _This_ is where you’re from. The others have only known you for four years. If another war is coming, it’s not yours to fight.”

“I’m not going to leave my friends to fight it without me. They need me.”

“They’ll manage. You can’t possibly be that essential among all the real witches and wizards.”

“Mum!” Hermione could barely speak past the lump in her throat. “That hurts. Why would you say such a thing?”

“You don’t even like flying. Deep down you know the truth. You don’t really belong in that world. You have the chance to choose a different life. We weren’t involved with the last war. Why would you stay and lead them to us?”

“I won’t lead them to you. I’ll protect you.”

“We wouldn’t need protection if not for your insistence on being involved.”

Hermione set her mouth stubbornly and stared out of the window at the passing cars. Crookshanks growled in sympathy.

“You think I’m out of the magical world when I’m home, but I _am_ the magical world at home.”

“Don’t aggrandize yourself. You’re one girl, and you’re still ours. We haven’t lost you yet. We raised you to be rational. There’s a whole summer ahead of us in which to make you see sense.”

“Fine, you’re welcome to try. You’ll have plenty of opportunity. I plan to spend this summer knitting for House Elves, so, ironically, you’ll have a captive audience.”

Hermione’s mother straightened herself around, shaking her head. “I don’t recognise you either.”

* * *

July 1995

Mr. Granger still asked questions about magic over breakfast, but his asking became less ostensibly helpful and more hostile. At first, Hermione had resolved to find answers for all her father’s questions, but he made it clear he’d written it all off as indefensibly foolish.

“Didn’t you tell us that the very first trick Professor McGonagall performed in class was to turn her desk into a pig? How does that square with not being able to magically produce food?”

“I don’t know.”

“And gillyweed causes a person to grow gills when one puts it in one’s mouth? How was that discovered? Was there a person who habitually went around putting random plants in his mouth? Did he just happen to be near water when he unexpectedly grew gills? Are there mountains littered with the bones of luckless people who ate this plant and died of asphyxiation on dry land?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Latin root ‘Levis’ led to the unrelated words ‘levigate’ and ‘levitate,’ so why doesn’t ‘Leviosa’ also make a thing smooth as well as making it rise?”

“I don’t know.”

“In a castle where there are spells for instant production of water and vanishing of messes, why is there plumbing at all?”

“I don’t know.”

Hermione endured each morning’s pointless interrogation until her parents left for work, then spent her days knitting small hats.

One Saturday in mid-July, Hermione sat knitting as her mother pretended to read a book, but Mrs. Granger was breathing with restrained vexation and hadn’t turned a page in an hour.

Hermione finished closing the seam of another House Elf-sized knitted hat and laid it on the pile of hats next to her on the couch. “What colour should I make the next?” She smiled at her mother with aggressive geniality.

“You finally decide to learn to knit and you’re making hats for dogs,” her mother sulked.

“Not dogs, House Elves! I think I’ll make the next purple,” Hermione chirped, and wound the yarn around the knitting needles.

“You’re not even doing it correctly. That’s not how my mother taught me.”

“I learned from watching Mrs. Weasley’s needles. If I was at Hogwarts, I could use her spell and make things faster, but I’m home, so I have to hold the needles myself.”

“Magic knitting. Of course. All these years I held on to my mum’s patterns, thinking you might someday like to learn, but I didn’t know you were waiting to be taught by someone else’s mum to make hats for animals.”

“House Elves.”

“You keep saying that, but those hats are clearly for something with ears that sit wide and floppy like a dog’s, not like an elf’s.”

“You’ve never seen a House Elf. They don’t look like Christmas elves, with pointy little ears.” Hermione illustrated with her index fingers over her ears. “And of course I’d like to learn Gran’s patterns, but right now the hats don’t need to be fancy, only serviceable. If the elves really like the hats, maybe I’ll make jumpers next year. Very small jumpers.”

“They’ll be adorable,” Mrs. Granger groused sarcastically.

There came a distinctive series of small taps at the front door.

“That’s Pigwidgeon!” Hermione put her knitting aside and went to let him in. “Wait here, Pig. I’ll get you a treat and some water.” Crookshanks trotted over to give him a friendly head bump. Pig hooted and flapped his wings with delight.

When Hermione returned with refreshment for Pig, she took the letter he held. “It’s from Professor Dumbledore.” She broke the wax seal.

My dear Miss Granger,

I hope this finds you well.

You are invited to join us for the summer as we plan the year to come.

Please send your reply with this most exemplary and laudable owl. If you accept this invitation, I shall arrive tomorrow at 9:00 AM.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Hermione turned the parchment over to see if anything was on the back, then held it up to the light. No additional writing appeared.

Hermione’s mother held out an impatient hand. “So? What does it say?”

“I’m…being invited to spend the summer assisting staff, I think. You know, setting goals, developing skills, taking initiative.” Hermione handed the parchment to her mother.

“Like an internship?” Mrs. Granger also turned the letter over, looking for further information. “It doesn’t say ‘internship.’ It doesn’t say much at all.”

“Mm.” Hermione hummed noncommittally, fetched a pen off the kitchen table, and wrote, “Yes, please. HJG” at the bottom of the parchment before refolding it and giving it back to Pig. “Who’s exemplary and laudable? It’s you, yes it is.” Pig leaned his head ecstatically into Hermione’s palm.

“What did you respond?”

“I said yes.” Hermione opened the door again and Pig flew out.

“You didn’t even ask us!”

“It wasn’t addressed to you.” Hermione stared defiantly at her mother. “These past weeks have been awful. I won’t stay for another month of it when I could be helping people who appreciate me.”

“All we want is for you to be safe and to have a normal, happy life. It’s all any parent wants. What happened to my girl who was content to sit reading in the library all day?”

Hermione gathered her knitting to go pack. “It turned out that there are more things to be brave for outside the library.”

* * *

The next day

At 9:00 sharp, Hermione was standing in the living room with her trunk and Crookshanks’s carrier. She eyed the fireplace. “I didn’t think to ask whether they were connecting us to the Floo Network.”

A terrific crack sounded from the front step and Hermione’s parents jumped.

“I suppose not.” Hermione slung her cardigan over her arm.

“No officious, anemic academic is going to descend from his ivory tower and whisk you away,” growled Mr. Granger.

Hermione turned to hide her smile.

“You don’t think I can prevail against a headmaster?”

“Any other headmaster, probably. Not this one.”

Whatever Hermione’s father was expecting when he opened the door, Albus Dumbledore, every inch the august sorcerer in resplendent, shimmering robes, wasn’t it. Mr. Granger was stunned briefly silent, and Albus stepped neatly into the moment.

“Mr. Granger, sir.” Albus extended his hand. “Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts. What an honor to meet the family of one of the finest students our school has known in a thousand years.”

“I…yes…thank you.” Mr. Granger reflexively stood aside and allowed Dumbledore to enter the house.

“And Mrs. Granger. A pleasure, madam.”

Hermione’s mother, flabbergasted by the actual wizard standing in her house, dazedly took Albus’s outstretched hand.

Turning to Hermione, Albus said, “Miss Granger. So nice to see you again.”

“Professor. How shall we be traveling?”

Mr. Granger gathered his resolve as he stood at the front door. “She’s not going anywhere today.” He crossed his arms stubbornly. “We played along with this madness for four years, but now that Hermione will be in particular danger from the magical world, Hogwarts will just have to do without her from now on.”

“And what do you imagine you can do to keep her safe here?”

“Well, she’ll be away from all that, off the radar. Sorry, do you know what radar is?” Mr. Granger asked with ersatz concern.

Dumbledore ignored the rudeness. “You do realize these are wizards, and they live in the same England you do. You’re not invisible to them just because they’re invisible to you.”

Hermione’s mother looked nervously out the window, as she always did when reminded that wizards did not confine themselves to distant caves and castles.

“We’ll help Hermione not be…that. Surely she’s learned enough by now to control any aberrant impulses. I’m sure it’s a simple matter of reassimilation and reinforcement to bring her back into respectable life beyond Hogwarts. If she’s not present, they won’t have any reason to be aware of her.”

“She is a Muggleborn witch and will be for the rest of her life. Magic is not something you can suppress nor remove, and it’s not damage that requires healing.”

Hermione’s mother inhaled sharply, braced by her outrage. “With all due respect, Professor, as a wizard yourself, you’re not able to judge that objectively. Any sensible person despises the thought of magic. It violates every natural principle the world depends on. We had dreams of what Hermione’s life might be and they’ve all been shattered. She lives most of the year in a world we can’t even see. She says it’s beautiful, but the glimpses we’ve gotten have been incomprehensible. A world of deception and subversion. No loving parent would permit their child to live like that. And now there might be a war coming again, and we’re trying to correct her misguided eagerness to endanger herself.” Mrs. Granger came to stand with her husband at the door. “Don’t you have enough heroes to fight for Hogwarts?”

“Can we ever truly have enough friends?” Dumbledore clasped his hands philosophically.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Isn’t it? But more to the point, your daughter has been one of Hogwarts’s most fearless defenders since she helped delay Lord Voldemort’s return in her very first year. I should think you’d be more proud of her.”

Both Hermione’s parents turned to her, thunderstruck.

Hermione moved quickly, giving each of her parents a brief hug before they could react further. “Have a good summer. I’ll Owl you soon. Professor, we should go now.”

At these words, Mr. and Mrs. Granger stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door as though they expected to be charged.

In the middle of the room, Dumbledore indicated that Hermione should hold the handles of Crookshanks’s carrier and her trunk. He linked his arm with hers, said, “Goodbye,” and Disapparated with Hermione and her things.

They landed in the grass near Grimmauld Place. After checking on Crookshanks, who seemed to take the abrupt trip with more equanimity than Hermione did, Dumbledore showed Hermione the slip of paper with the address of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

When the door of Number 12 appeared and they’d made their way in, Ron barreled down the stairs to greet them. Hermione nearly burst into tears to see him, but she only threw her arms around him, pressed her face against his shirt, and breathed deeply of the scent of the magical detergent Molly favoured. He smelled like home.

They separated, blushing, when Dumbledore spoke. “I have very important instructions for you, Miss Granger, and you must follow them without fail.”

“Anything, Professor.”

“I have already spoken to Mr. Weasley about it.” He nodded at Ron. “The Order of the Phoenix has many members. Each has objectives to accomplish. You must promise that, no matter what you see or hear, you will not mention anything you observe in this place to Harry.”

Hermione demurred. “But he’s desperate for news of the magical world.”

“Be that as it may, you must say nothing at all about our activities to him. Eventually he may be able to be brought here. For now he must stay with his family. His safety depends on it.” Albus adjusted his spectacles and looked Hermione deeply in the eyes. “You must never commit anything here to owl communication. If your owl is intercepted you will betray us all.”

There was no possible argument. “Yes, of course.”

When Dumbledore walked away, into a room behind a closed door, Hermione and Ron shared an uneasy glance. “Harry’s going to be livid,” Hermione said. “He’s already pressing me for news of You-Know-Who, and all I could tell him was what appears in the _Prophet,_ which was nothing.”

“Right, I forgot you get the _Prophet_ delivered at home. Speaking of, I didn’t expect you would actually come when Dumbledore suggested asking you. You just got home a few weeks ago. Were your parents okay with letting you leave so soon?”

Crookshanks yowled to be let out of his carrier and Hermione was glad for the excuse to look at him instead. “Oh, they’re a bit disappointed, but they’ll understand. Anyway,” she said briskly, “let’s get my stuff into a room and then you can give me the three-Knut tour.”

* * *

31 August 1995

Hermione,

Congratulations on being appointed prefect. If only it was for a better school.

We hope that, as a prefect, you’ll be held to higher standards of behaviour. We expect you will refrain from imprudent heroics this year.

See you at Christmas.

Dad and Mum

19 June 1996

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

I regret to inform you that Hermione has been injured and is being cared for in the Hogwarts infirmary. She is conscious and mentally sound. However, she was attacked by an adult wizard using Dark magic, and the curse which struck her will leave significant permanent scarring on her torso. She is otherwise expected to make a complete recovery before the end of term.

Yours,

Minerva McGonagall

* * *

Wednesday, 3 July 1996: coming home after Fifth Year

As Hermione disembarked from the train, she spared a last pitiless glance for Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle oozing in the luggage rack.

“Enjoy your summer,” she said with a vicious smile.

Hermione steeled herself, waiting for the ticket inspector to signal safety to pass back through the magical barrier. She expected another row in the station, another attempt in the car to persuade her to disavow the magical world.

When she was waved through the barrier with Harry and Ron, she was stunned to find a welcome committee comprising Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, Remus Lupin, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Fred and George, and Hermione’s parents, looking like they’d found themselves suddenly on the wrong planet. The Dursley family stood far away, intently ignoring all the people with the nerve to be conspicuously unusual in public.

Hermione’s mother seemed unable to decide whether she’d rather stand farther from the Weasley twins in their screaming green dragonskin jackets, or Mad-Eye with his cloak, staff, and bowler, looking like Middle Earth’s production of _A Clockwork Orange._ She was thus forced closer to Arthur and Molly, and helplessly suffered their effusive greetings.

Mr. Weasley put an affable hand on Hermione’s father’s shoulder. “How goes the dentistry practice, Ben?”

“Dentistry?” Mad-Eye grunted.

“The Grangers heal and remove teeth!” Mr. Weasley explained.

“Oh? Good skill. Never know when teeth might turn on you.”

“Quite,” Mr. Granger coughed. He smiled as Hermione approached. “Hello, Strawberry.”

Of all possible receptions, Hermione hadn’t prepared for affection. “Hi, Dad.”

Her father hugged her gingerly. “Are you all healed, then? Still sore at all?”

“Just a little bit, but it’ll be gone soon. I have medicine to take for it.”

Hermione’s mother hugged her gently as well. “We’re glad to see you.”

Behind Hermione, Mr. Weasley said, “Well — shall we do it then?”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur,” Mad-Eye answered. Together they began walking toward the Dursleys and the whole magical group followed.

“I’m sorry, Mum, they’re — I have to — I’ll be right back.” Hermione jogged to catch up with the group. “What are we doing?” she stage-whispered to Fred.

“A bit of wholesome old-fashioned public disgrace and intimidation.”

“With _this_ group?”

George grinned. “Watch and learn.”

When Hermione returned to her parents, she expected to be told off for interrupting their reunion, but they only asked if she was ready to go home. Mr. Granger pushed Hermione’s trolley for her. “To conserve your strength,” he said.

“Hello, Crookshanks,” Mrs. Granger crooned into the carrier.

Mr. Granger put Hermione’s trunk in the car and helped her into the back seat.

“What,” stammered Hermione. “What are you both playing at?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are you being so…”

Mrs. Granger buckled Crookshanks’s carrier with care. “We’re just happy to see you, darling. We didn’t know what to expect after we got that last Owl, and we received a very disturbing leaflet from the Ministry of Magic a few days ago, talking about protecting your home and family against Dark forces.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, we see. So what happened? How did you get hurt?”

 _Here we go._ Hermione straightened up. “We were attacked while trying to rescue someone we believed was trapped at the Ministry of Magic.”

She waited for the consternation, the disappointment.

“Did you succeed in the rescue?” Her father’s eyes sought hers in the mirror. There were no vertical lines of agitation between them.

“It turned out he hadn’t been trapped there after all.”

“Oh?”

“Harry had been tricked by Lord Voldemort into coming, and we were ambushed by his followers, the Death Eaters. We had to fight them.”

“That sounds terrifying. You must have been very brave indeed.”

“The man we’d been trying to save, Harry’s godfather, came to help us, and ended up dying in the fight.”

“Oh, no, that’s very sad. What a terrible thing to happen at the end of your school year, and just a year after you lost your classmate, too.”

Hermione pushed, looking for the anti-magic, anti-heroic resistance she knew must be there. “We had to fly invisible animals to get to London from school.”

“Good heavens. I can’t even imagine how difficult that must have been. Well done.”

Sympathy _and_ praise was a bridge too far.

“Will you just—” she sputtered. “Why are you doing this? The suspense is killing me. Just say it and get it over with!”

“Say what, darling?”

“Tell me you warned me, that you told me I should get out of it, that I was putting myself in unnecessary danger.”

“No, we’ve come around.”

Hermione resisted the urge to tap the side of her head to clear her ears. “Sorry?”

“You’ve been telling us for years that the magical world is your true home, and we’ve decided we just need to accept it and try to support you as you defend it.”

“Truly?” Hermione leaned forward to see her mother’s face better.

“Truly. This is your life now and we have to get used to hearing about it. We suppose Voldemort will keep gunning for Harry, and you’re close to Harry, so whatever he’s in the middle of, you’ll be there too, because you’re a good friend and you’re very brave.”

Hermione could only sit with her mouth open, parsing every word skeptically.

“What else happened this year?” her father asked.

“Er. We formed a secret club to practise defensive magic in defiance of a Ministry employee who denied Voldemort’s return and wanted us not to prepare to fight him?”

“Did you really? How impressive. Tell us more about that.”

Hermione was still speaking as they arrived home. Her throat hurt from talking so much, but it was a relief to be able to tell her parents everything she’d seen and done over the year without having to be evasive.

She was so caught up in the telling that she forgot to skip over Arthur Weasley’s injury. Her parents looked at her blankly when she mentioned visiting him in the hospital on Christmas Day.

“How did you get from Hogwarts to the hospital?”

Hermione concentrated on opening Crookshanks’s carrier. “Oh…ah. I wasn’t entirely truthful when I said I was staying at Hogwarts to study.” She sat on the couch and Crookshanks jumped up.

“No?” Her father sat at the other end of the couch.

“No. I’d heard about his injury a few days before Christmas, and I wanted to be with the Weasley family to lend comfort.” Crookshanks curled up next to her and she skritched his face. As always, Hermione’s mother gazed with dismay at Crookshanks on the couch, then blew a deep breath out and sat in her armchair.

Hermione’s father frowned, and Hermione thought she might finally have exhausted this new acceptance, but all he said was, “I’m sorry we led you to believe you needed to lie to us. In the future, we’d prefer to know where you actually are.”

“Yes, all right. I’m sorry. I’d cancelled on your big ski trip, and I didn’t want to upset you any further by telling you I actually wanted to spend Christmas with a friend’s family.”

Mr. Granger’s eye twitched slightly. “No, I understand you were trying to spare us as much disappointment as you could.” He shared a furtive glance with Hermione’s mother. “Well, how was the hospital visit? Magical hospital, eh? You’re lucky you never ended up there after any of your misadventures.”

“I know. Really serious magical injuries go to St. Mungo’s, and many of them don’t have obvious cures. We saw poor Professor Lockhart on the residential ward, and we also saw our friend Neville’s parents, tortured into insanity during the last war.”

“Oh, how awful,” said Mrs. Granger, sharing another inscrutable look with her husband.

“But I read up on neuromagic after I got back to school, and there are some very exciting approaches being studied. The latest data indicates—”

“‘The latest data _indicate,_ ’ Hermione. ‘Data’ is plural.”

“Right. Sorry.” Hermione tried to pick up her thread of thought again and found herself derailed. “Dad. Could you maybe…relax with that? Advances in neuromagical healing are a little more important than perfect grammar.”

Mr. Granger cleared his throat. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I’ll try to resign myself to the fact that you now speak like an average teenager.”

“Hardly,” Hermione snorted. “Even the average magical teenager isn’t talking about neuromagical study data.”

“The average magical teenager is more interested in fireworks and portable swamps, apparently.”

“The Weasley twins are definitely not average. They were the most formidable wizards in the whole student body if I’m honest.”

“Well, such is the magical world, I suppose. The best and brightest either become joke shop proprietors or neurologists.”

Hermione picked up the purple leaflet from the Ministry of Magic, open on the coffee table. “With what’s about to happen in the world, we’ll need both.”

Hermione’s mother laughed nervously and stood up. “Is anyone peckish?”

* * *

Wednesday, 10 July 1996

Hermione,

Mum and Dad wanted me to write to let you know you’re welcome here at the Burrow any time over the summer. I know we all just got home, but they say the invitation stands, whenever you feel like showing up. I think Harry will be here by the end of July too. Let me know what you think.

Ron

Hermione read the letter aloud while Pig greeted Crookshanks with hooting and hopping.

“Your Headmaster’s not stealing you away for an ‘internship’ this time?” asked Mr. Granger.

Hermione put her hand to her mouth. “That was unpleasant all around. I’m glad we’ve come to a better understanding this year.”

“As you say.” Mr. Granger spun the pen in his hand. “So! When would you like to go?”

“What?”

“Well, the invitation is open immediately. Would you like to go as soon as possible?”

“I just got home.”

“But there’s nothing here except your books and your knitting while your mum and I are at work. If you’d prefer to be in a magical household with your friends, we certainly understand.”

Mrs. Granger nodded. “I agree, I think you’ll enjoy your summer more with your friends.”

“Really?” Hermione squinted at them both. “This is unexpected.”

“We want you to have the best possible summer. You worked so hard and suffered considerably this last term. You’ve earned some proper relaxation.” Mr. Granger clicked the pen open and handed it to Hermione.

“This is _extremely_ unexpected,” Hermione repeated as she took the pen. “You said you were going to try to be more supportive, but this is above and beyond.”

“We only want what’s best for you, Strawberry.”

With tears in her eyes, Hermione wrote, “See you this Friday? HJG” at the bottom of the parchment and handed it back to Pig. Her father opened the door and Pig flew out.

“What did you say?”

“I said I’d arrive on Friday.”

“Good, good.” Mr. Granger nodded at Hermione’s mother.

“You’re the best. Thank you so much.” Hermione sniffled as she hugged her parents.

“Marvellous,” said Mrs. Granger, patting Hermione’s hair. “Well, we should make the most of today and tomorrow. Hermione decides what — or where — we eat both nights. Let’s splurge.”

* * *

23 December 1996: Christmas break, Sixth Year

Hermione seethed on the train all the way home, alternately incensed and downhearted. She nodded when it seemed expected in the conversation, but wasn’t paying attention at all. She hadn’t had a Christmas without Ron and Harry since their first year at Hogwarts and it felt deeply wrong to be going to her own home. The whole term had gone wrong, with Hermione’s Potions skills inexplicably faltering, and Harry unable to shut up about Draco Malfoy, and Ron snogging Lavender all over the castle. She told herself it was a good thing she was going home to get a bit of distance and perspective and return fresh after the holidays.

When the ticket inspector waved Hermione through with Neville and Luna, Hermione’s father was waiting alone.

“Hi, welcome back.”

“Hello. Isn’t Mum with you?”

“She was feeling a little tired, so she’s waiting at home. Who’ve we here?”

“These are my friends Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood.”

“Pleased to meet you, Neville.” Mr. Granger extended his hand politely, but Neville’s right hand was full of toad. While Mr. Granger’s hand hung unshaken, Luna pressed a small object into it.

“Hello, Mr. Granger.” Luna smiled serenely. “This is for the Feast of the Snail Queen, if you observe it.”

“Er.” Hermione’s father opened his palm, revealing a mother-of-pearl button. “Thank you. And…a pleasant feast day to you as well.”

“Happy Christmas. See you soon,” said Hermione, and Neville and Luna walked away.

“What, and when, is the Feast of the Snail Queen?” muttered Mr. Granger. “Is the Snail Queen a snail or a person?”

“I wish I could answer any of that, but I can’t. Luna knows things nobody else knows. She’s a Ravenclaw.”

“Is she,” said Mr. Granger, startled. “Where are Ron and Harry?”

“They’ve gone together to Ron’s house.” Hermione began pushing her trolley with fury.

“Ah,” her father said, striding to keep up with her. “Will you be wanting to visit at some point over break?”

“No,” Hermione growled. “Ronald has a girlfriend. My company is not needed.”

“Oh! That is, I’m sorry to hear you’ve had a falling out.”

“It’s not a _falling out,_ ” Hermione huffed. “He’s just being impossible.”

“Ah, seventeen,” murmured Mr. Granger.

“Not helping, Dad.”

“I apologise. I am sorry that you’re on the outs with your friend.”

“I don’t want to think about it right now, okay?”

“Okay. What else has been happening this term?”

Hermione sighed. “We’ve got a new Potions professor…”

Hermione noticed, on walking into the house, that it was oddly clean and minimally furnished. Most of the decorative trinkets and souvenirs her parents had accumulated over their lives together were missing. The house was as warm and familiar as a random hotel room, alluding to the comfort of home but not seeming to belong to anyone in particular.

“Where is everything?” she asked.

Her father put his hands on her shoulders and coaxed her toward the kitchen. “We have something to show you.”

Hermione’s mother was in the kitchen with three suitcases.

“Hi, Mum. Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Hermione’s father indicated a pile of documents on the kitchen table: birth certificates, driving licences, passports, plane tickets.

“Wendell Wilkins.” Hermione shuffled the top papers aside. “Monica Wilkins.” She looked her father in the eye. “What are these for?” she asked pointedly.

“‘ _For what_ are these,’” he said, exasperated. “We’re leaving not a moment too soon.”

“What do you mean, leaving? You’re going on holiday?”

“We’re leaving for good.”

“You’re moving house?”

“We’re moving out of the country. England’s not safe anymore.”

“What about your dental practice?”

“We’ve sold it.”

“But you’ve had your practice in this town—”

“Since before you were born, yes. And we had to give it up because of you.”

“Me?”

“You and your _magic,_ ” spat her mother. “When we got the leaflet from the Ministry of Magic in July, we had no idea what to make of it, talking about Polysauce Potions and Shield and Disfigurement Charms and Infernals. I still don’t understand it, but I understand we’re in the middle of a magic war now. A house blew up two blocks away. The bridge over the river collapsed. A news helicopter fell out of the sky into the park down the street.” She shuddered, glassy-eyed. “They’re closing in on us. I always knew they would.”

Mr. Granger put a concerned hand on his wife’s arm. “She’s been completely incapacitated with paranoia.”

“It’s not paranoia if you’re really being followed!” Mrs. Granger shouted. “Every bird, every insect, every stray dog could be a wizard watching us!”

Mr. Granger rubbed his forehead wearily. “There was a spider in the dental office a month ago, and I found your mum cowering under a desk, unwilling to go into that exam room. She wouldn’t let me take it outside because she thought it would become angry. We had to cancel all her afternoon appointments.”

“Don’t make the wizard spiders angry,” Mrs. Granger mumbled. “They’ll torture you and steal your memories.”

“Oh my God, Mum,” whispered Hermione.

Mr. Granger indicated the paperwork. “So we’re leaving. We’re going as far from all of this as we can and starting over with new lives.”

“Then they won’t be able to find us,” said Mrs. Granger, “your Death Makers.”

Hermione picked up a driving licence and examined it. “ _You_ found someone to make these? They’re really good.”

“Don’t sound so bloody impressed,” her mother snarled. “You’ve turned us into criminals. Fugitives. You have no idea what sort of people we’ve been forced to have dealings with.”

“I’m sorry, Mum, I’m so sorry. Look, I can put wards around the house right now and you won’t need to go anywhere at all. I can protect you now, I’m seventeen.” She pulled her wand from her sleeve. Her mother cringed and skittered to Mr. Granger’s other side, farther from the wand.

“It’s done, Hermione. The office is closed, the patients gone, the house empty and soon to be sold as well,” said her father.

“But where will I live?”

“You’re coming with us.” Mr. Granger shifted Monica Wilkins’s papers and handed Hermione a driving licence with her own photograph on it.

“Geraldine Wilkins.” Hermione blinked at the card. “ _Geraldine?_ You gave me a new identity and didn’t even ask what I’d like to be called?”

“I’ve always liked the name Geraldine,” said her mother.

“No.”

“Yes. It’s _done,_ Hermione. I mean Geraldine. Gerry? You can be Gerry if you like it better.”

Hermione put the card down and pushed it away. “I’m not going.”

“You are. Our flight leaves tonight. And,” her father stepped closer, “you need to give me the wand.”

Hermione backed away. “Why?”

“I’m putting an end to all this now.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m breaking it in bloody half if I can, but I never want to see it in your hand again. No more magic. We’ve put up with this long enough.”

“It’s mine. It chose me.”

“Stop talking nonsense. Look what you’ve done to your mother. It’s time to let go of this fantasy and remember how to live among normal people.”

“You can’t take me anywhere I don’t want to go! I’m of age!”

“You’re only seventeen and you’ll go where you’re told. Enough now. Give it to me.”

Mr. Granger reached for the wand and struggled with Hermione as she gripped it with both hands.

“Dad, stop!”

“No. I’m saving _you_ now. You’ll thank me one day,” he growled, yanking hard. Hermione lurched and stumbled over the leg of a chair. Mrs. Granger stepped into the fray and put her hands on her husband’s, adding her weight to the pulling.

“Dad…Mum! Let go!” Hermione’s footing slipped and her hip bruised against the table. She felt the wand turn, carved ridges sliding minutely but inexorably under her fingers. All but the last few inches pulled suddenly from her hands and her father planted his feet for one last tug. “ _Repulso!_ ” she screamed.

She thought her parents might jump back after receiving a small shock. Maybe even a large shock.

Instead they flew across the kitchen as though blown by an explosion. Their backs struck the counter and their heads bounced off the cabinet with gruesome thuds. They crashed to the floor together, bloodied, slack, and motionless.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hermione panted, falling to her knees. She cast desperately to heal their concussions and any broken bones and to keep them asleep so she could think. “What do I do, what do I _do._ Merlin help me,” she swore, then, dropping her face into her hands, whispered in supplication, “Merlin, help me.”

She stood and studied the documents on the table again, reflecting on the months of preparation her parents had invested in this plan. If they had already been planning in July to take her away in December, their new acceptance of magic must only have been a ruse to keep her from running off for good. A regretful sob rose in her chest for all the well-intentioned deceptions that had ended up here.

The plan itself was impressive. Hermione couldn’t have accomplished it better if it had been her own idea. The dental practice was gone, the house ready to be sold. Her parents had flawless false IDs and plane tickets to — her eyes widened — Australia, of all places. The flight was in just a few hours.

“You should go. It’s a good idea. You planned it well. But I can’t go with you,” she said, kneeling by them. She thought back through the neuromagical professional journals and the many hours she’d spent in the infirmary, watching Madam Pomfrey treat variations on Amnesia jinxes. She blew a deep breath out and practised the wandwork, suppressing the trembling of her hand.

_I have one chance to do this right._

_Well,_ her father’s voice in her thoughts corrected her. _You’re going to do this well._

_Yes, Dad, for you I’m going to do this well._

“ _Scribomens._ ” She concentrated on the precision of the gestures and spoke clearly, telling her parents their names, their plans, and how much fun they were going to have together in Australia. The spell unfolded in pulses of elegant, intricate geometry, razing and rebuilding.

She mended her dad’s glasses and the cracked face of her mother’s watch, then took Geraldine’s paperwork off the table and levitated her parents onto the couch, as though they’d fallen asleep sitting. She shrank her school trunk and put it in her room with the third suitcase and Crookshanks’s carrier, leaving him with a very serious _shush_ that she hoped he understood. Kneeling in the hall cupboard, with a view of the living room through the crack of the door, Hermione whispered the spell to waken her parents.

Her father yawned and squinted at his watch. “Jesus Christ, Monica, look at the time!”

Hermione bit her hand to keep from laughing even as tears sprang to her eyes.

“We can’t sit around napping!” Her father gallantly helped her mother off the couch. “Ready to go, Gorgeous?”

“I’m ready!” Her mother gave an excited shimmy. “I’m always ready to go anywhere with you.” They shared a long kiss, and Hermione lowered her eyes, feeling intrusive. She looked back up just in time to see her mother playfully swat her dad’s bum. She bit her hand again.

Her parents fetched the paperwork and suitcases from the kitchen and zipped their coats. They were almost to the front door when her dad stopped short, causing her mother to bump into him.

“Strawberry,” he said wonderingly.

Hermione put her hand over her mouth, shaking.

“What’s that? Strawberry? Why are you thinking of strawberries now?”

“I’m…not sure. I just felt like I was forgetting a strawberry.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, a bit. We’ll grab something on the way to the airport.” Her dad frowned and cast a last look around the bare living room. “I’ve always liked strawberries.”

“Do they have strawberries in Australia?” Hermione’s mother opened the door.

“We’ll find out, won’t we!” Turning in the doorway, he said, “Bye, old house!” and closed the door, leaving Hermione alone.

“Goodbye,” she called softly, and, clutching her wand, let the tears come.

* * *

When Hermione emerged from the cupboard, with red eyes and a sore throat, she first inspected her own room and was surprised to find her books still neatly shelved. She began pulling out the ones she wanted to take, pausing over _Ten Pounds of Sugar In a Five-Pound Sack: Extension Charms and Magical Space._ Half an hour later, she’d charmed two handbags to be quite a bit larger on the inside. Into one she put the living room sofa, her dad’s record player, and his album collection. _Vinyl is the superior audio medium,_ she heard him declare, and she laughed through her tears. The books went into the other bag.

The refrigerator had been unplugged and the cabinets were empty, so she ordered a takeaway, eating with a plastic fork alone at the kitchen table and frequently checking the kitchen clock. _They must be at the airport by now. They’ll board the plane in twenty minutes. They’ll take off soon._ The ticking of the clock in the silence was unbearable and she realised she could not sleep in the house alone that night.

She packed an overnight rucksack, left food and water for Crookshanks, and stepped out into December’s chill to hail the Knight Bus.

“Nice to see you again, dear. Where to?” asked the witch who took her eleven Sickles.

“Er.” Hermione had thought to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but it wouldn’t do to be out and about where she could be recognised while alone. She remembered a smaller inn on one of the streets crossing Diagon Alley. “The Fox and the Wand, please.”

* * *

Hermione checked into The Fox and the Wand under her new pseudonym and requested an owl. On a sheet of the inn’s parchment, she wrote,

Dear Viktor,

I find myself unexpectedly free tonight. Are you free as well? Would love to see you.

Your Ninny

Under these casual words she charmed an animated flare, repeatedly rising and exploding into a ball of tiny red sparks on the page.

She pulled out one of her earrings and pointed her wand at it. “ _Portus._ ” It glowed blue and shivered in her palm. “In for a Knut, in for a pound. That’s how the saying goes, right?” she muttered to the owl, who watched with interest. She poked the earring post through the parchment next to her signature, anchored it with the backing, and said to the owl, “Viktor Krum, British Quidditch Training Facility Guest Accommodations.” The owl left with the parchment. Hermione ordered coffee and settled in at a table facing the door.

An hour later, Viktor appeared suddenly outside the door to the inn. Hermione stood to greet him.

“I was surprised to get your message,” he said as he hugged her. “It is a beautiful evening. Would you like to walk?” He offered his arm with Slavic pureblood propriety.

They left the inn and were a little way down the street when Viktor pulled Hermione into an alley. In a fraction of a second they had their wands precisely and lethally trained on each other. They stood like that, steely-eyed, barely breathing.

“Go on.” Hermione swallowed against the weapon at her neck, heart pounding. “Ask.”

“The day I invited you to the Yule Ball, I found you in the library. There were two books on the table in front of you. What were they?”

Hermione lifted her chin and smiled. “ _Beguiling Bulgaria_ and _The Complete Illustrated Compendium of Wronski Manoeuvres._ ”

Viktor lowered his wand. Hermione kept hers pointed at his chest.

“What is your question?”

“What did you give me for my birthday last year?”

“A box of hand-decorated parchment for you to write letters to me, and,” he held up her earring, “sapphire earrings.” As Hermione lowered her wand, Viktor hugged her fiercely. “Zdravei! Are you all right? I came as soon as I could. I was very worried at your message.” He checked her eyes with light from his wand and ran his hands solicitously down her arms. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. Something has happened, but not to me. I need you to check my work.”

Viktor turned Hermione and tilted her head so he could put her earring back in. He snorted, amused. “There is no magic you could do that needs my review.”

“It’s Dark magic,” Hermione whispered.

Viktor raised his eyebrows. “Let us get back inside and you can tell me.”

Up in her rented room, with thick wards on the walls, door, and window, Hermione demonstrated the casting she’d done on her parents. “…then an arc, and this wiggly bit, and a slash, and a circle.”

“A smaller circle?”

“No, just like that.”

On the bed, Viktor winced and rubbed his face. “You hit them hard.”

“I wanted to make sure it took the first time. There was no possibility of a second attempt.”

“You succeeded, maybe too well. I cannot promise you will get them back as they were.”

Hermione sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

“Even so, I think you did the right thing.”

Hermione came to sit with him on the bed. “I hope so. I mean, I can’t think of anything better I should have done. And they seem happier now anyway.”

“It is done now. Regret is useless. You did what you could in the moment.”

“Yes.”

Viktor tucked one of her curls behind her ear. “And now you are alone.”

“Yes.” She looked tearfully into his eyes. “Can you stay?”

Viktor reclined on the bed and gathered Hermione gently against his chest. In the warmth and safety of the little room, with snow falling against the window and a fire crackling in the grate, he quietly sang a Bulgarian ballad and caressed Hermione’s head with his fingertips while she grieved, crying her devastation into his shirt.

When Hermione’s sobs levelled out into exhausted tranquility, Viktor asked softly, “Was it your first Dark magic?”

Hermione put her arm over her face. “No.”

“No?” Viktor nudged her.

She peeked out. “Do you really want to know?”

“Well, now I am curious.”

“I’ve been casting the Blue Flame since I was twelve.”

Viktor chuckled. “That would be impressive and alarming.”

Hermione flashed him a small, nervous smile.

His eyes widened with disbelief. “Nooo. You definitely did not learn that at Hogwarts.”

“Not in a class. An older student left a book from the Restricted Section of the library on the reshelving cart and I picked it up.”

“But the Blue Flame is the first part of—”

“I know.”

“It is for—”

“ _I know._ ”

“Did you cast the whole spell?”

“No! Of course not.”

“What made you cast the flame, then?”

“It was the illustration on the cover of the book. It was…pretty. And the spell for the flame alone was part of a decorative page near the beginning of the book.”

Viktor swore floridly in Bulgarian.

“I _know!_ ” She elbowed him. “You don’t have to yell at me. I never went any further with it and I don’t try new spells without looking through the whole book first anymore. But the flame is so useful by itself!”

“ _Useful._ ”

“You can scoop it up and carry it in a jar. And it’s waterproof! I brewed a potion in a bathroom with it.”

“It is not supposed to be useful! Or pretty! But if that is all you did…”

“Annnd I set Professor Snape’s robes on fire with it,” Hermione said quickly.

“I am sure you had a very good reason to do that.” Viktor’s lips twitched at the corners.

“And I’ve used it for warmth. That’s all.”

Viktor grunted skeptically. “Any other confessions?”

“Yes.” Hermione leaned back so she could see Viktor’s face.

He splayed his fingers in her hair and rubbed her head, waiting.

“I hate flying.”

“You _do?_ ” he gasped with exaggerated shock, and grinned. “I will have to return the professional racing broom I bought you for Christmas.”

Hermione elbowed him again. “I’m serious. I really hate it.”

“I already know this. So?”

Hermione took one of his hands and turned it, looking at his broom calluses in the light of the fire. “I was once told that I wasn’t really a witch if I couldn’t fly on a broom.”

Viktor snorted. “This is a foolish thing to say. Many witches and wizards do not enjoy flying. You can walk everywhere for the rest of your life, or stay in bed in silk pyjamas for thirty years like my great-uncle Georgi. Should I exchange your racing broom for silk pyjamas?” He stopped smiling when he saw how earnest she was. “Do you really think I care?”

“You’re the best Seeker in the world. Does it really not make you think less of me if I don’t like flying?”

“Listen to me.” He raised himself on one arm to look directly at her. “My cousin Stefana hates making potions. She avoids it. My friend Pavel from Durmstrang likes to make things by hand, like your knitting. He enjoys the slowness, it calms him. Some witches and wizards fly, some make potions, some make things by charming other things, and some do not. You can live among Muggles for the rest of your life and never do anything with your wand, and you would still be a brilliant witch always.”

Hermione reached for the tissues on the bedside table. “You were raised entirely among purebloods. How did you become so accepting?”

“I was raised entirely among purebloods,” Viktor shrugged. “I have seen what happens when there is obsession with what makes a real wizard, or a best wizard. Hogwarts is better than Durmstrang in this way. I am glad you were born in England and not Bulgaria. If you had been born in Bulgaria I would never have met you. And then I would have had no favourite person to rescue from a lake.” He lay back down, casually Vanishing Hermione’s wet tissues.

Moved and lost for words, Hermione interlaced her fingers with his and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, his long fingers nearly covering the back of her hand. She laid her head on his arm and they watched the fire in silence until she spoke again.

“Have I ever told you what my boggart is?”

“No.” He stroked her curls. “When did you find a boggart?”

“The year before I met you, my teacher introduced our class to one he’d found, and there was another in the final exam. All the other kids had normal fears. Creepy things, spooky things. My boggart was my Head of House telling me I’d failed everything.”

“How did you defeat it?”

“I didn’t. I fled the exam. My teacher was kind enough not to add to the trauma by failing me for it.” She sniffled, and Viktor gazed down at her.

“Are you still most afraid that you have, as you say, failed everything?”

“I can’t stop thinking, what if I should have done something different?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But what if there was another option that didn’t amount to killing my parents, and I just hadn’t studied enough to know about it? What if there was one more book I should have read to know exactly what to do?”

“Shhh.” He wiped her tears with his thumb. “You didn’t kill them. You did everything you could to save their lives, so you do not have to visit a graveyard for Christmas next year.”

“Merlin.” Hermione shivered. “I can’t even imagine what I’ll be doing next Christmas. There’s already so much death. Bad things are happening and it’s going to get worse.” For a few moments she looked deeply into Viktor’s dark, kind eyes, then sat up and surveyed the room restlessly. “If things get as bad as I think they will, I’m not nearly prepared enough for it. I’m wasting time. I can’t just sit here crying.”

Viktor smiled, fond and resigned. “What would you like to do?”

Hermione wiped her eyes, stood up, and pulled her wand from her sleeve. Magic pulsed down her arm, ready, limitless.

_Vine wood, ten and three-quarters inches long, dragon heartstring core. Determined, resilient, eager to learn…and very much outside the library._

She exhaled, resolute, and beckoned Viktor to his feet. “First, show me all the wards you put on this room.”

“All of them?”

“Bulgarian, Czech, Yiddish, whatever you’ve got,” she said, recalling an emerald on a platinum chain. “I can do this.”

Viktor stood next to her. “I know.” He tapped her foot with his. “Your duelling stance is perfect.”

“I know.” Hermione tapped him back, then raised her wand. “Okay, where do I start?”

_fin_


End file.
